Alcartur
by laideji
Summary: "Do you believe in fate?" "Of course I do. 'Means I can't be held accountable for my actions." - In which Leo is quite surprised when she finds an alternate universe in her bathroom. Eventual Tenth-Walker.
1. DnD Gone Terribly Wrong

Here's the thing: nobody _wants_ to start their story with _it's a dark and stormy night_. It's cheesy, it's lame, it makes me feel all _Addams Family_. Unfortunately, the night that changed my life _was_ dark and stormy; parts of it, anyway. The weather had changed swiftly around noon, covering a bright sky with heavy, slate-gray clouds. And yet, no matter how much it threatened, rain wouldn't fall.

I stand at the window of my small, cramped apartment, nose pressed against the cold glass. Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating distant high-rise buildings - and I blink in surprise, then jump at the following crash of thunder. Thunder does generally follow lightning, but I promise you, I'm not the brightest. Fanning myself, I step away from the glass, thankful that the air conditioner was fixed. Though it was cooling down outside, my apartment retained the ridiculous heat and humidity from earlier that day.

My friends are here, laid out in various positions of _I feel like I own the place_. We'd returned to my apartment that, by all rights, shouldn't fit four people in a single room after we'd swung by a burger place for takeout. Tonight was the highlight of the week, and it was my turn to host. Dungeons and Dragons night. Call us out; we're nerds. Okay, _they_ were nerds. I was still new at the game, since Wyatt had introduced me only two months prior.

With my hands on my hips, I assess my friends. There's Wyatt, lounging on the couch; he's a tall and skinny figure with scruffy hair hanging down to his chin and a crooked nose covered liberally with freckles. He is, I assume, napping, given the waterpark brochure he'd picked up is covering his eyes from the harsh ceiling light. Wyatt's an enigma, and my best friend for seven years. He's usually awesome, but everyone has their Achilles heel. Wyatt's comes in the form of the fact that he usually looks like the nineties threw up on him.

Opal sits near him, cross-legged on the floor, her nose buried in the Monster Manual. She has a beer next to her. That's smart, considering it usually takes several drinks to prepare oneself for DnD night. The beer also happens to be Milwaukee's Best - which is every other place's worst - but Opal nurses it faithfully as she reads about green dragons. Her twin, Mabel, is sitting on the kitchen counter next to the microwave. The pair are related, but they look nothing alike. Mabel's taller and less proportionate; all arms and legs and elbows, and her massive head of hair is now brushing the ceiling of the kitchen. She's staring at the microwave intently. That's her popcorn addiction, flaring up again.

They're all silent and stuck in their own little worlds. I stare at them for a few moments, and then, plopping down on the questionably colored carpet, I chirp, "Looks like rain, eh?" If there's one thing I don't like, it's silence. There's a lot attached to that for me - things as mundane as mom's voice whenever I asked about dad. Then bigger things, more terrifying things. A door at home that mom never let me go through.

Yeah, silence kind of sucks.

Wyatt lifts the brochure from his eyes and peers at me, not unlike he's fearing for my sanity. "It's looked like rain all day." I don't like his tone, so I flick a piece of fuzz at him. It lands in Opal's solo cup of beer, and after a moment of hesitation, I decide not to pluck it out. Opal's probably too engrossed in reading to notice. Wyatt gives me a look - one that says that we're all tired and I shouldn't make anyone more irritated than we already are - and I ignore it, for the most part. Sending him only a mocking stare in return.

We're interrupted by the microwave's loud _PING_ and Mabel sliding off the counter with an enthusiastic half-screech-half-squeal. I press my hand to my temple at the sudden, shrill noise. "Oh, geez. Pterodactyl much?" Mabel apologizes, sitting unceremoniously on Wyatt's knees and earning a wheeze of pain from him, but I'm still massaging my head. Mabel's shriek leaves a ringing in my ears, and a headache that's not going away.

Pounding at the base of my skull - which, in retrospect, probably wasn't the smartest idea - I growl, "Damned sinuses. Why does this happen to _me_ , of all people? . . . I don't even have insurance."

Vertigo and migraines had been plaguing me a lot lately, but I'm too broke to even consider going to the doctor. Public safety announcement, kids: if you ever feel continuously shitty, give the doc a call. You might end up six feet under, or in a coma, or possibly in an alternate dimension, and believe me, the latter is the worst of the bunch. ( But, hey, it happens to the best of us. ) Also don't do drugs, and never drink and drive.

But I digress.

Struggling to my feet, I peer around the room. Everyone's stuck in their own little worlds again, but I interrupt it by announcing, "I'm going to the bathroom." Mabel grimaces at me, saying around the popcorn stuffed in her mouth, "Wow, okay. TMI, Leo." I pass the couch and steal some of her popcorn; she, having decided to hoard the bag, makes a strangled noise in protest. Before she could follow and elicit revenge, I stuff the handful in my mouth and skid down the hall before arriving at the one bathroom housed in my too-small apartment.

It's dingy, with tacky tile and a single light bulb for a light source. I'm a poor college student and this is the best I can afford, but something about the mold on the walls has become endearing, but not endearing enough that I'm not considering hiring Mr. Clean.

Bracing my arms on either side of the porcelain sink, I stare at my reflection. It's probably better to tell you now and get it over with. I'm not considered an attractive person. It must come from my dad's side, because my mom - tall and dark with a big smile and thick, curly hair - is actually kind of pretty. I never could achieve her level of beauty, and I definitely blame it on my deadbeat dad. He's the reason my odd-colored hair - red, which doesn't suit my dark complexion at all - looks like I use lard as hair gel. Mom used to say he was handsome underneath all of his facial hair, but if his bone structure was anything like mine, I can only imagine his cheekbones were Tom Hiddleston's on steroids.

I look past the pimple on my cheek and rub my clammy forehead. I look worse than usual; my skin seems pale, _yellow_ , like I have jaundice. My eyes are puffy and red, and the rings under them are so dark not even concealer could do a decent job at making me look like I didn't need a visit to the doctor.

I sigh, splash water on my face, and tell myself in what I know is a lie that I'll go to a doc-in-a-box soon. Then I leave the bathroom, poking my head into the hall to ask my friends why they didn't tell me I look like shit.

But instead, the words die in my throat, and silence swallows me.

It's. . . hard to explain what happens next, but I know for sure that I spend several moments frozen in place before I fall on my ass in shock.

You see, it's not scientifically possible - people don't just blink and reappear somewhere else. It can't happen. I failed physics, but I'm ninety percent sure that breaks several of its laws.

Except. . . I did.

One moment, my yell is building in my throat, and I'm prepared to kick down the door in my teasing rage. The next, there's no door. No hallway. No skyscrapers, No thunderstorm. I turn around; there's no bathroom. A light lingers in the sky, maybe my eyes holding on to the memory of the lightbulb, but it blinks and it's gone.

My heart skips a beat. Maybe several beats. For the next few minutes, my memory's mangled: thrown into a blender with fear and confusion. Then everything clears, and I cast a look at my surroundings. There's trees. Okay, that's cool. They're tall, dark and twisting, casting shadows over the ground, reaching up to the sky to find a sun that I'm half afraid doesn't exist because the canopy of leaves above me is so thick I can hardly see the sky. Just a few spots of bleak light shining down when the leaves rustle and shift.

I get to my feet as my jeans grow sharp and cold from the remnants of a recent thunderstorm soaking into the moss. My legs are shaking, but I manage to root myself to the ground. I'm half sure that the slightest breeze will knock me down again, since my socks are soaking into the earth and I think, for a moment, that bugs are crawling into my skin. The latter is probably fear getting to me, but I'm too scared to check.

Instead I scratch my thigh and inhale. Every breath I take seems to be a whistle through the cold air - air that penetrated my tee shirt and cardigan - and, as it sweeps by, I shiver and rub my biceps.

 _God, this has to be some acid-induced nightmare_. I hold on to that thought as I take a hesitant step forward, but in the back of my mind I know I've never taken acid in my life. Something about this feels all too real, and I don't want to believe it.

Another step. I hiss as my foot lands in a small puddle of scummy water, but it's not as if my socks aren't already ruined. Wincing, I try to quiet my breathing. Normal people might've called hello, might've tried to find something close to civilization. Wyatt's forced me through too many horror movie nights - there's no way I'm going to alert anything potentially deadly to my presence.

With that cheery thought, I try to calm my rapidly beating heart, and force myself to think about something else. Anything else. _C'mon, Leo. What would Bear Grylls do_?

God, I knew I should've stayed awake during Mabel's National Geographic Channel marathons.

Mabel's one of those nutty survivalists. I remember the last time we went camping together, when she'd drilled into all of us what to do if we got lost. At the time, we laughed and pushed it aside. It never seemed like something I'd have to put to use. Now, I thank my lucky stars that Mabel is so prepared for the apocalypse. Find shelter, I remember, my tongue darting out to lick my rapidly drying lips. Exposure can kill me long before starvation or thirst will. That's smart - it's really hecking cold.

I shuffle forwards, now keeping my eyes on the ground to avoid any more puddles of water. My head jerks up at any sound, but it's still so quiet, at times I think it'd be easier if I was being chased by some sort of Eldritch monster. At one point, a bird - or maybe a bat - flutters past my ear and I utter a harsh and almost silent scream. As if even my vocal chords have dried up in fear. After that, I kept my fists clenched and rigid at my side, but I know I'm far too scared to unleash full-blown jiujitsu on any forest creature that comes near me.

Which is good, because I don't know jiujitsu. Goddammit. What a shitty time to be helpless.

I wander helplessly for maybe thirty minutes, and when I'm convinced I'm going in circles, I collapse on a fallen, mossy log that I've probably passed ten times before. After, of course, meticulously checking it for creepy crawlies and dead bodies.

I bury my face in my hands and hold in a sob. _God, what's happening_? It couldn't be possible. I don't believe in gods or magic or sudden transportation. This isn't _Star Trek_. I never asked for Scotty to "beam me up". I don't even know where _up_ is.

My hands fall to my lap and I wring them, shivering slightly as another breeze envelops my shoulders. "Mushrooms." I surprise myself at the sudden voice. It's my own voice, hoarse and caked in fear. "Yeah, that's it." It's barely enough to comfort me. But, God, I must be passed out on the floor in the bathroom, suffering violent hallucinations. I'll wake up tomorrow and we'll all have a good laugh about it.

Something tickles the back of my mind. I knew, _I knew_ , it wasn't true. But I want to believe it so bad that I chuckle to myself, one that is swallowed in the darkness and lost to the wind. A real comfort.

Mushrooms, I decide, or I'm finally going nuts.

I glance up at the sky, or what passes for the sky since I can't really see it due to the leaves. Night must have fallen, I guess, and immediately my mind trips a little. It'd already been night back home, but reverted to dusk when I found myself in the forest. I almost ponder it more, but the wet moss has finally penetrated my jeans enough for me to stand and stare at the log in annoyance for a few moments before reluctantly sitting back down.

Gross. Now I'm cold, filthy, tired, _and_ missing DnD night. What a day.

The wind rustles through the trees again, interrupting my gripping thoughts, and I jump for about the twelfth time that hour. It's steadily growing colder, I realize with a hint of fear, and I still haven't found anything that remotely resembles shelter. It's, what, five degrees lower? How much had the temperature dropped? How much _would_ it drop?

By this time, I'm half sure the 'shroom-induced hallucination will freeze me to death. It'd already ruined my jeans.

I place my head in my hands again, pushing back my hair. It's frizzing from the damp air and tickling my forehead.

 _Calm down, Leo. Calm down. Think._

I don't, though. I sit there, my shoulders tensed in fear, my back hunched against the wind. I figure that I probably look like some sort of demented, red-headed goblin, and the thought doesn't comfort me much, but the image is hilarious, anyway.

Slowly - far too slowly - time stretches on. An owl hoots in the trees, and my head jerks up as I desperately search for it, straining my eyes in the darkness. Birdwatching is something I used to do with my mom, and I'd always liked it, but I like distractions even more. Anything - _anything_ to take my mind off this.

That's when I smell it. The aroma of cooking meat, combined with the comforting smell of burning wood, wafting on the breeze. It brings with it tinkling laughter and a gush of warm air. The entirety of it invades my sense, and I immediately felt as if years have been added to my life.

I almost faceplant in my haste to stand. Before I know it, my legs are churning into a stumbling run, tripping over my own feet. I seem to hit every puddle I come across, sending splatters of mud all over my jeans, but I no longer care. There's one thought on my mind, and for once, it isn't food.

 _People_.

I finally slow as I see it. It's a faint glow at first that grows larger as I approach. I peek through a bunch of ferns - it's a large, crackling bonfire, illuminating its surroundings - and a ring of white birches. The trees are delicate, so delicate they don't match the twisting forest around them.

But most importantly, I can't ignore the tall and elegant figures that stand around the fire. They laugh and speak amongst each other, their words too quiet for me to make out. The fire dances, distracting me from the tones of a language I don't recognize and, briefly, from the fact that most of the people are wearing sweeping robes. It speaks to me, it tells me that this is happiness. Warmth and joy. It tugs on me, and I want in.

So, naturally, I step through the ring of birches and shout, "Hey!"

And just like that, it flickers and disappears.

The fire, the people, the whole shabang. Boom, gone. The first feeling to set in is confusion. I blink once, twice, and rub my eyes. The smell, the feeling, the voices - they're lingering on the air, but faint and empty.

Then, hundreds of yards ahead, it flickers back to life.

 _Okay. That's weird_.

I want to stay where I am, hidden by the ferns. It's dark and horrifying lonely, but the fire, though beckoning to me again, seems unnatural and strange. I'm not too big on the whole idea of a bunch of wood-dwellers packing up their fire and fleeing from me in the blink of an eye. I don't want to believe it's magic - but I'm getting real tired of answering everything questionable with "shrooms".

I'm slower as I approach the next bonfire. _Maybe if I sneak up on them_ , I think dimly. _Maybe they're just scared and ran away_. Somewhere within me, I knew that it was shady and fishy and every other synonym for wrong. Something's clouding my judgment; judgment that clears when I open my mouth again to call a greeting, and everything disappears again.

I frown and enter the circle of trees, thin but dark; the light must've tricked me into thinking they were birches. The forest floor bears no sign of footprints or a fire. Seconds tick by, and I wait, my eyes flicking around the woods. Then, maybe five hundred yards to my right, the scene comes back to life. Now the laughter has an underlying, mocking tone. And now I'm determined, starting towards it, hanging back, and finally creeping around from a different angle. My attempt fails as I reach the white trees and the fire immediately dies.

I'm not proud to say I spend the next several hours chasing the mystery scene, probably zig-zagging over a better portion of the forest as I do so. I try to climb trees and drop down from above, but I only land on my tailbone and not in a fire; I deck myself in fern leaves to appear as if I'm wearing robes, but infiltrating their ranks is a bad decision, and I end up with ant bites on my shoulders.

Nothing works. I give up at midnight - I can tell because of the moon set high in the sky, which I can see through a gap in the leaves - and fall to my knees, touching the telltale knot in my throat. I can't be crying. It's been - what, nine, ten years since I've cried?

But I am. And I cry a lot. Every impossible explanation is pushed away as I realize this is real. Utterly real. And horrible. I'm terrified and alone, and there are wild animals out there, and if they didn't get to me, the exposure probably would. If _that_ didn't, dehydration and starvation. My legs burn as if I've walked miles and yet I've seen no sign of people, and my hallucinations don't count.

I'm a goner, I tell myself. And with that cheery thought, my eyes roll back into my head. I pitch forward, passing out before my cheek even lands on the damp, packed earth.


	2. I Always Knew Aliens Were Real

I'm very conscious of the fact that I'm not at home, but I try to ignore the dirt and moss pressed against my cheek and pretend that it's just the bathmat. That the damp floor is the pipes leaking. That my friends stayed the night and they're bickering; Mabel's bitching about how Wyatt won't let her eat popcorn for breakfast, and Opal, ever the diplomat, is smacking them both upside the head.

In fact, I'll be honest here. I'm so wrapped up trying to convince myself that this is just a bad trip on drugs that I don't even notice I'm not alone.

Something pokes me in the shoulder, you see, and it's a hard, painful jab against my collarbone, effectively waking me.

My eyes snap open. I sit up, nearly smacking my forehead against an outstretched bow.

Jerking back just in time, my gaze travels up a pair of green-clad legs to a face that's both unnaturally beautiful and somehow. . . _creepy_. It's framed by shoulder-length, pale blonde hair, pulled back in the dorky half-ponytail everyone wore in middle school. His eyes sparkle with curiosity barely masked by disgust.

And as a mixed kid, I take particular offense to this.

No matter if he looks like that Elven wizard guy from the DnD manual or not. He radiates danger, which is not something you want to radiate off of somebody at seven in the morning, and it doesn't take me long to deduce that the daggers strapped across his back - and the quiver of arrows at his waist - are both very real and very sharp.

I squeak, not quite able to form words.

He, however, is, and speaks, very quickly. His voice is velvety, bordering on deep but not quite. I ignore that in favor of his tone, cold words in a language I can only guess is Gaelic. Not that that matters, since I can't speak Gaelic.

"I - I - " I swallow, trying to speak, but the ability escapes me. My tongue is dry and thick, too big for my mouth.

He squints, tilting his head to the side. No doubt he pegs me as a bit, ah, _special_ , and at this point, I might have agreed with him. At least he's put away the bow, and my shoulders sag as I try desperately to find something to say.

"I don't understand," I finally manage, and he can't hide the surprise on his features. The tip of his bow is again pressed to the side of my neck - which isn't that threatening, considering it's not sharp, but then I remember that he could easily use it to beat me over the head with - and asks something else. He seems to be firing questions at me. Interrogating me.

Short explanation? I don't like it.

But then I realize that he's not speaking the same language as before. Each tone, each sound and word is different; some are harsh and guttural. Some are smooth and melodic.

I can't understand any of them, and only watch him helplessly as he switches back and forth, back and forth. None of the languages are English or even remotely close to something I recognize.

Finally, he steps back, and I realize he isn't alone. Fear creeps in, because we're surrounded, and several of his. . . what, cronies? Chums? Brethren? Whoever they are, they're dressed similarly, and all have their bows drawn. Bows that were, unsurprisingly, aimed at me.

I draw in a breath. "Well, _shit_. You're a Dungeons and Dragons cult, aren't you? Hey, it's chill. I love that game!" I raise my hands in a _surrender_ gesture, plastering a big, fake smile to my face. It's the only explanation I can gather, and it's a flimsy one. It's also a lie. I hate Dungeons and Dragons.

The blonde stares at me with an indeterminable expression, and then turns to bark something at a pal.

I'm still very, very scared, and I don't want to believe this is a cult, because they don't seem to be afraid of hurting me. I briefly want to entertain the idea that my friends slipped something in my drink, waited till I passed out, and then carted me off to the forest and booked some creeps interrogate me; as if any moment now, Wyatt would walk through the ring of cosplayers with that irritating swagger and tell me, _You got PRANKED_!

Wow. . . those guys are _not_ my friends.

But I know that isn't the case. I try to get to my feet, but the ponytail guy pins me with such a glare that I almost trip and fall on my ass again. Gracelessly, I lower myself back to the ground. He clearly doesn't want me to move, and maintains a few moments of awkward eye contact with me before he motions to two of the guys behind him, who come forward and latch onto my biceps.

"No - no, no, no, no, no - " I squeak and nearly start hyperventilating as I try and twist away from them, but they hold fast to my arms. See, I know what's going to happen. Scenario: you're confronted by a guy and his armed buds. You're obviously trespassing. He makes some weird gesture. They're going to tie you up and chop off your head! Easy math.

 _. . .Leo, that wasn't math._

But we've established already that brains don't really work properly when you're scared out of your wits.

 _Shut up_ , I tell my wayward thoughts as I'm jerked to my feet. My wrists are tied behind my back with rope that is at once coarse and smooth. I test its strength - no go. _Not even The Rock Johnson could break out of this_ , I figure wanly, but I still try to wiggle my hands to loosen the bonds. As I expect, it doesn't work.

I look up just as Ponytail beckons his hand in my direction. When I hesitate, I'm harshly pushed forward, and trip over my feet in the process. It takes me a moment to remember I'm not wearing shoes, and in that moment my feet start to scream in pain. Not literally, of course, but I wouldn't be surprised if they had. It'd already been a weird fucking day.

So there we are, marching through a forest with a layer of fog masking the trees. My gaze bounces from our surroundings to the barely-visible path we walked on, and then to the intricately made swords strapped to Ponytail's back, and then I wonder if his legs are as well muscled as his arms, and then I have to remind myself that he's captured me and it's probably not the smartest idea to perv on him.

As we walk, I try to ignore the way my socks are getting more ruined with step I take, and how my feet are going to be so calloused by the time we stop. I don't really want to focus on much else than my cruddy socks, to be honest. It feels more normal than freaking out about where they're taking me.

Or, more accurately, I just don't want to focus on freaking out about where they're taking me - because so far, they sure as hell haven't been all that nice. I could only hope they're bringing me someplace with showers - and food. I'm really hungry, being the type of girl who can hardly go a few hours without a snack. Yeah, sue me. I'm not a bikini model, and I've missed my breakfast.

Finally, Ponytail stops walking. I nearly run into him, but the guy behind me holds me back. I hold back an affronted noise at the sudden contact; nobody's touched me since they'd tied me up, and a) I hadn't been expecting it and b) I'm not really fond of the people who are trying to kidnap me putting their hands on my body. But I'm in no position to hiss at somebody with a weapon, and the guy merely pins me with disgusted eyes - I'm starting to hate that expression - and slowly removes his head from my shoulder upon hearing the strangled noise that leaves my mouth.

So I shake the feeling of his hand from my skin and look away, then up, then further up, and gasp in awe. I don't mean to, since I'd rather not appreciate anything these people have built, but the citadel that rose before me was truly something to gawk at. Which is precisely what I'm doing.

A tree had fallen across a gorge, hewn to make a walkway, which would've been impressive if the walkway had railings, and since it didn't, I'm pretty sure it violates at least three health and safety codes. Beyond that, two enormous pillars, carved to resemble birch trees, entwined to form a canopy over a gate - an entrance to an enormous city, towers spiraling through the trees towards the sky, arched windows snaking around the building. It radiates power and elegance, which is weird for a building, but it makes it work.

I barely have time to drink in the sight before I'm pushed forward again, and I realize we're moving. I don't want to cross the bridge - the gorge is _really_ deep - but I have no choice, and I shuffle across, suddenly afraid of not only toppling off the edge but also of getting splinters impaled in the soles of my feet.

But at least it's shelter, I tell myself, and I'm glad to be out of the wind. Once we're inside, I'm enveloped by a warm, cozy breeze that smells reminiscent of cinnamon.

I barely have time to enjoy it. Ponytail barks something and leaves, marching up a set of stairs and disappearing around a corner. Most of his envoy disperses - going back outside, striding down corridors, vanishing into the shadows - but two remain.

The girl speaks first. Her hair is a darker blonde than Ponytail's platinum, and her slanted eyes are green. She has a strongly boned face, like mine - not what most of the world would call pretty, but certainly striking. When she smiles at me, it lights up her features and sends me spiraling into a pit of self-consciousness. She puts her hand on my shoulder, saying, " _Lariel i eneth nín._ "

I can't understand, but as she puts her other hand over her heart, I grasp that she's introducing herself. She repeats the phrase a few more times, I guess for my benefit, and at last, I shakily nod.

Her companion, whose hair is hilariously long and has a reddish sheen, crosses his muscled arms and hisses something. She cast him a look that I recognize as _fuck off_.

I very suddenly find myself liking her immensely. She's nice, she's hot and she has the no-nonsense attitude when it comes to assholes.

Of course, he retorts something like, _Ponytail said we had to lock her up, and you're teaching her linguistics? You fuck off_. ( Later, when I began to learn their language, and his memorable words came to mind then. Yeah, my translation is pretty spot-on. )

Lariel rolls her eyes. She says something to me in an apologetic tone, but since I can't understand, I barely react as she grabs my upper arm and hauls me down a corridor. I'm more than a little surprised at her strength and struggle to keep up with her, following her a little more willingly because she was, at the very least, nice about it.

Unfortunately, I began to get the idea _why_ she was apologetic, as the corridor we travel begins to angle down. The air grows chillier, smellier, and more stale. I'm not amused.

Listen, it's not that hard to figure out where we're going.

il.

Or the dungeon. You know, whatever you want to call it.

If I'd been my DnD character, I would've unleashed a can of whoop-ass on Lariel and cleverly escaped in the nick of time. Unfortunately, I'm not a badass, so I allow myself to be tossed in a cell. At least Lariel _looks_ sorry; the guy behind her doesn't mask his look of contempt in my direction.

Let me tell you this right now.

I've never been in jail, but it's. . . it's awful. I cringe as my foot skates across a puddle of water. The walls are hewn from rock, jagged and glistening with water that slowly drips down to the equally rocky floor. A niche is cut into the wall - a place where I assume I'll sleep - and slowly, I pick my way over, more than a little terrified that I could cut my feet against the sharp floor.

After I sit, I peel off my socks, and grimace as I examine them. "Ew." Once a clean, white color, they are now stained with grass and mud, and practically shredded. The bottoms of my jeans aren't much better. Equally wet and muddy, they cling to my ankles, and I make no attempt to remove them.

I drop my socks, drawing my knees up to my chest, and realize that Lariel is still staring. Her hand lingers on the iron bars of the cell, and I don't want to hate the sympathy in her green eyes, but some small part of me does. I don't bother to say anything, knowing she won't understand me, but she doesn't have the same idea.

" _Man eneth lín_?" She asks, and I stare with low-drawn and tired eyes. I don't understand. I don't want to. I'm tired of asking _what the fuck_ to everything.

She puts a hand to her chest. " _Lariel_." Then she extends her palm to me. " _Man_?" She pronounces the word like _ma-ahn_ \- 'man', but British.

 _Bitch. . . I ain't no man. You see these boobs? Well, actually_. . _. I don't have boobs._

I get the gist of what she's saying, and try to manage a smile. I'm pretty sure I fail. Spectacularly. "Leoma. My name's Leoma."

Lariel's eyebrow quirks upward. She says something else, but I shrug in return and turn my gaze away. A rustle and then a few footsteps tells me that she's left, and after a glare in my direction, Redhead leaves too.

I lay my cheek on my knee, wiggling my toes in the chilly air.

 _How long am I supposed to be here? Will they kill me?_

My insides shiver at the thought, and I suddenly feel sick, but there's nothing in my stomach to throw up. Still, I lean over the side of the niche, preparing to empty my guts. I wouldn't put it past these guys. . . this isn't a joke, and not even Wyatt is _that_ demented.

My friends don't have anything to do with this.

Drugs don't have anything to do with this.

And I don't know what does.

I get the feeling that I'll have an aneurysm if I try and explain what's going on, so I decide it's best not to think about it, and stare off into space. I imagine myself back at home; Friday morning was waffle day. I can almost taste the soft, buttery Belgian waffles Lou - his actual name is Steven, but don't believe him - from down the street sells. Besides, I only have one class on Friday. One that I'm probably missing.

But I'd rather miss class than be stuck here.

It sends me into a bit of a depressive - and temporarily vegetative - state, but I'm brought out of my thoughts when someone bangs on the bars. It's Lariel, and I glare at her. Then I realize she's brought food, and that changes everything.

Oh.

 _HELL, yes._

Is that golden light and a chorus of angelic voices? I couldn't tell if it's fabricated by my own mind, or if she's actually a goddess.

With a smile, Lariel slips the tray under the door. I hesitate for only a few seconds and then scramble towards it, my feet slipping against the wet rocks. The bread might once have been soft and airy, but it's stale now; the cheese is a tad too goaty for my taste. It's not Belgian waffles, but it's _food_ , and my burgers had disappeared from my stomach fifteen hours ago.

When I'm finished, I stare blankly at the crumbs and feel like I shouldn't wish for more, but I do.

Lariel crouches to eye level and produces an apple from her pocket. I look from the fruit to her eyes, which glint in the dim light, and I break eye contact to stare at the apple pleadingly. I'm not a fruit person, but I would even take an orange over nothing else. And oranges are the devil incarnate.

She tugs it out of reach of my _gimme_ gesture and says, "Hafal."

I'm not in the mood for games. " _What_?"

Pointing at the apple, Lariel repeats the word. I know what she means, but I still feel the need to ask, "What the hell are you saying?"

" _Hafal_ ," she says again, and she's definitely gesturing to the apple this time. Hafal means apple, I get it, now give me the food.

"Alright, alright, fine, Hafal. Can I eat it now?"

She laughs - a tinkling, melodic, and completely, unfairly pretty sound - and passes it through the bars. I practically inhale it. It's tart and sweet at the same time, plump and rosy and juicy. You can't get fruit like this in the States, or at least not where I'm from. This is the best goddamn apple I've ever eaten.

You know those makeup commercials where they're like, 'it's better than sex', and you're thinking, 'well, that must be really shitty sex?'

This apple is the best sex in the universe.

It's a good apple.

Lariel laughs again and says something that sounds like ' _bear_ '. I stare at her, hoping she's not calling me a rude name, but she stands, bidding me a _  
"Navaer"_ and slowly walking down the stony corridor before disappearing around a bend. I thoughtfully gnaw on the core of the apple before placing it back on the tray and pushing it under the bars.

The metal scraping against stone makes a loud screech, and after the ringing in my ears stops, I crawl back atop my stone bench and close my eyes.

It's cold, and I curl up to try and protect my arms and the goose bumps popping up on my skin. I'm trying to force myself to sleep, and it's not working. Not counting sheep, reciting the multiplication table, pretending I'm on a private island in the Caribbean.

 _Maybe when I wake up, all of this will disappear._

Want to know something?

It doesn't.


	3. Some Shit Happens

The next several weeks crawl by painfully. I wake up each day to the sound of Lariel's fist against the bars, unless it happens to be Daelen - the redhead who'd accompanied Lariel when bringing me to the dungeons - an special kind of asshole that I quickly learn to hate. Every morning I can look forward to what I can only describe as gruel, which is the kind of stuff you hear about in history class but never think actually exists. At first, I try to stay away from the food, but as time passes, I get too hungry to ignore it. Then it actually starts to taste _good_ , and that's when I begin to worry that I'm losing my mind.

I probably am.

The fear and anxiety chews away until I find myself mimicking Tom Hanks in that shipwrecked movie - talking to myself, over and over, anything to keep me tied down. There is barely anything to keep me company; just myself and, occasionally, a green-clad guard who says little to me due to the language barrier.

It's so incredibly _boring_ , but I don't have any room to complain out loud. There's a rock that I use to etch mostly meaningless symbols on the walls - sometimes names, sometimes demented faces, some dick graffiti here and there, algebraic formulas to remind me just how much homework I was missing. Other times I try and sleep the day away, or sit curled in the rock niche, talking to myself, telling myself stories about this place and the guards to keep myself entertained. One is going through a rocky marriage and another is secretly in love with a goat; it's not like they can understand me, anyway.

Then other times I lie awake and wonder what my friends and family are doing, and that's the most painful of all. Are they looking for me? Have they given up and gone about their daily lives? Can they live without me, or do they feel just as sick as I do? It's hard to think of my mom and what she's doing - I've always been the only one for her, and now I'm gone. Especially as two months start to creep by, it becomes too difficult to hold back tears, and I try and block her from my mind.

The only good hours of my day are when Lariel stops by. It isn't often; she has other duties, she tells me after I start to learn her language. That's what she teaches me whenever she stops to talk. It takes a while to coax me into it, but then I'm able to construct little sentences and understand her words as well. It's a shock to me, because it took me three years to pass high school French - but there's hardly anything else to do here, so I might as well focus on something.

Though I crave Lariel's visits, Daelen's are a bit more harsh. If he even deigns to speak to me, it's an insult that's probably considered inexcusable in modern society. Or he just looks at me with a glare that speaks louder with words. It's not like I'm not used to it; white soccer moms have pulled their kids out of my way before. But it still stings and, every time he looks at me, I'm forced to ignore it. I know what happens to people like me if I challenge that.

God, way to make me feel like I'm back in the sixties.

I ask Lariel about it - in broken sentences - and she reaches through the bars to touch my shoulder. _You are human_ , she tells me, and I barely understand. _To the old ones like Daelen, you do not belong in the wild, Elven places of the world_.

It's not much of a comfort.

One morning - or noon, or evening, because in the dark expanse of the dungeon, time feels liquid - I'm sitting in a dry corner, gazing at the edge of my tattered jeans and wondering how long my leg hair can possibly get. It's a study I've been conducting for weeks now; my mustache is equally impressive. I look up as Daelen unlocks the cell door. He has two other guards behind him; one I vaguely recognize, and the other I've never seen before.

He's never come in my cell before, and I press myself against the wall, following him with my eyes as he steps towards me. "Get up," he says in his usual cold tone, or something along those lines. I oblige - slowly - and hold out my wrists for him to bind. He does, and I mutter, "kinky bastard", but my quip is lost on him. After a moment of dimly thinking that faeries have absolutely no sense of humor, I turn my head and ask, "Where?"

It's a simple word and easy to pronounce. Daelen understands me; it takes him a moment to speak and when he does I catch the name "Elvenking" - nothing else. I've heard that name before, spoken in high regards.

Ah.

So _finally_ they're taking me to the boss man.

It's a long time coming, and astonishingly, I'm not excited.

Still, I'm glad to be out of the dungeons. A chill runs over my skin as we emerge from the corridor. Light spilling into the hall hits my face and I almost wrench myself free to go running towards the sun. Even back home, I've never been much of an _outside_ type, but now I realize how much I've missed that warmth.

But Daelen holds me back. I stay in place, head ducked, forcing a muttered apology.

As I'm pushed forward again, I will myself to walk away from the sun. So close, yet so _fucking_ far. I look back several times, trying to linger as much as I'm allowed - but the guards are eventually fed up with my behavior. Daelen tells me something along the lines of _start walking before I pluck your eyes out and feed them to the ravens_. A threat I don't fully understand but heed his tone. It takes a lot of willpower to keep myself from calling him a racist bastard.

That guy. I _really_ don't like that guy.

Finally, we reach what I guess is the throne room, but my once-greedy eyes don't even acknowledge the architecture.

They land straight on the guy that holds my life in his hands.

The Elvenking.

He's unfairly hot, and I almost can't avert my eyes.

His lithe frame, clothed in silvery fabric, lounges across a throne that imitates twisted tree limbs. His face is beautiful, but it holds an otherworldly, frighteningly godlike quality to it. His features - chiseled and smooth - are twisted into an expression that says all too clearly, _puny mortal_.

No, he's not hot, I decide. He's gorgeous, in the way a statue is gorgeous. Beautiful, yet painstakingly carved to be so.

I drop to my knees and think of heroines in all the books I've read. They always resist. They always stand tall and proud, spit things like _you're no king of mine_.

Sadly, that's not reality. The tension in the room makes it pretty clear that if I don't show respect to this guy, he'll have me killed.

I barely listen as Daelen and the king speak, keeping my eyes firmly on the base of the throne. The atmosphere presses down on me. I feel as if I'm not worthy to look at the king, even if it's just a big, defiant _fuck you_ glare.

 _Especially_ if it's a big, defiant _fuck you_ glare.

After a few moments of introspection, I realize that everything is still and quiet. My heart skips a few beats and I glance at Daelen, who stares back, arms crossed. I don't know why I look to him for help, since he's the last person who would help me, but it's a habit. I search his face for any clue of what to do and find nothing.

Oh.

Am I supposed to say something?

A few more moments pass, the silence - along with my fear and Daelen's intense gaze - growing with each ticking second.

Finally I manage to squeak, " _What_?"

The Elvenking looks at Daelen like, _this dumb bitch_. Daelen rolls his eyes - quick, almost unnoticeable. _I know, right_?

Hoo, boy.

"Please," I say, scraping my brain for any recollection of intelligent words. Figures that every memory of proper grammar leaves me when I need it most. "Repeat?"

The Elvenking murmurs something, but I know he's not the one to ask me the question. He's not going to speak to me - he's the king of a colony of weird-ass fantasy aliens, and I'm just a goblinoid creature at his mercy.

Daelen reiterates the question, slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a child. "Why were you in our forest?" He asks, his irritation more obvious now than ever.

Well, shit.

"Don't know," I reply, then lift my hands. A rustle behind me tells me the pair of guards are reaching for their daggers, but Daelen stops them with a look.

I clap once, the sound ringing and echoing throughout the vaulted room. "Boom. Here."

The king sits forward. I don't meet his gaze, but his body language seems at least a little interested. My spirits soar at that, and I start to pray that maybe I'll live. Please, if there's any sort of deity in the universe, let me live.

Daelen fires several more questions - ones I can barely understand and have to piece together word by word. _Where did you come from_? _Why can't you speak any known languages_? _Do you know Mithrandir_?

The last one catches me off guard. "Who?"

Mithrandir. I've heard his name tossed around a few times when the guards outside are being careless with their words, but I have no idea who he is or what he does. A god? A spirit? Some sort of high-ranking official? A king of a neighboring country?

But above all, this Mithrandir guy seems like an important dude - and they think I know him. That leads me to believe he has something to do with magicky stuff; the sort of stuff that can, say, take a helpless chick on a bad acid trip through Hogwart's Forbidden Forest.

Daelen says a string of words. I'm only able to catch basic radicals. Helplessly, I stare at him and shrug.

The Elvenking flicks his wrist. Daelen seems hesitant, and asks something along the lines of, _are you sure_?

A few moments pass, and then a guard slashes the ropes around my wrists. They fall around my knees and I rub the raw skin, the meaning of the action not sinking in until moments later.

 _Holy shit, I'm free_. I stare at my wrists. Red and chafed, but free.

I don't attempt to stand, though. It's like at high school: _That bell doesn't dismiss you, I do_. I have to wait for the king's clearance to leave.

After a few more minutes of debate - steady and sure on the Elvenking's part, hesitant and questioning on Daelen's - I'm brought to my feet.

Daelen tells me something. I only pick up "Lariel will blah blah you blah blah to blah blah blah." I blank out after _Lariel_. She's exactly the person I want to see, and maybe hug. Actually, I'm not too sure if elves even know what hugging _is_.

Of course, there is always the possibility that she'd be taking me back down to my cell, where I'd spend the rest of my days until I turned into a scary old loon with Einstein hair and sack dresses, scratching anime titles onto the rocks in an attempt to look like deep and meaningful foreign symbols.

With that cheery thought, I'm slightly less excited to leave the throne room, but the two guards push me forward despite me dragging my feet. Lariel is leaning against a wall outside the enormous doors, and looked behind me to my companions. They exchange a few words, and then she gives me a smile - one that I read as a sympathetic, _I'm sorry_ sort of expression. I try to return it, but I can't really muster the emotion.

As the other two guards leave, I get the urge to cling to her, try and convince her to let me escape, but I hold myself back. Lariel is kind, but that didn't mean she was necessarily on my side.

She puts her hand on my shoulder and guides me down a corridor I don't recognize. I try not to let my heart soar with hope, but since the corridor is angling up, not down, I start to fidget; we definitely aren't going back to the dungeons. That has to be a good thing.

But she could also be taking me to an executioner.

. . . Looking back on it, I was pretty negative back then.

Eventually, the corridors start to get a little more warm and welcoming. The bronze light from torches dances across the walls, and we pass a few open doors. I peek in one; it reveals a group of elves laughing and talking in hushed tones. There's beer and cards involved. Another shows a small office where a woman is examining maps. She looks up and smiles, nodding her head at Lariel as we pass.

Then Lariel turns another corner and pushes open a door. I step back as steam - very, very hot steam - billows in my face. "Wh - what - ?"

Oh, _hell_ yes.

The room's a sort of sauna, or maybe an indoor pool or bathing area, or a combination of all three. Lariel motions towards the large pool of water, in which many ladies are lounging, clad in towels or barely masked by water. She pushes me gently towards the door, but I hold back, suddenly anxious.

Call me old-fashioned, but bodies were. . . private to me. Like, you do you - #FreeTheNipple and all that - but I didn't want people to see me naked, and I didn't want to see other people naked. I try to explain feebly to Lariel. "No, I don't - that's really - " _Kind of grody_. I don't finish my sentence.

Lariel, not really getting what I'm saying - or trying to say - and not seeming to care, pushes me into the room with a very obvious _you need to get clean_ glare.

She's right, but I'm still shy.

I stand there for several awkward seconds before finally obliging. I rid myself of my filthy clothes, leaving them in a sad pile at the edge of the pool since I don't really know what to do with them. Then I slide into the water and bite down hard on my lip to keep from making a provocative noise. ( You _all_ know what I'm talking about. I don't have to say it. )

I'd been in the dungeon for so long - surrounded by constant cold and filth - that I've almost forgotten what it's like the be warm. The water envelopes me, and I dunk my head under the surface, relishing in the heat. It takes me a few minutes to break from my reverie and scrub the fine layer of dirt from my skin. The soap leaves me flushed and soft, wrinkly and clean.

It's really something I've missed.

I almost linger for too long in the water, but remember that Lariel's waiting for me. Finally clambering out, I reach for the clothes that she'd laid out for me - a tunic, pants, and leather boots. The soft fabric slithers over my skin, and I cinch the tunic around my waist with a belt; it's thin but warm, and above all, it's _clean_.

I don't want to leave the warm room - it's comforting and smells like lavender, which is a real change from the dungeons - but my auburn hair is starting to kink from the humidity. I step out into the cool corridor; Lariel's waiting outside. She smiles when she sees me and says something that sounds like, "You look much nicer."

I don't know the truth to that statement, but at least my hair isn't greasy anymore and I no longer have excessive body hair, so I smile and nod along.

Lariel touches my shoulder gently and asks, "Sleep?" It's a word I know and the meaning of which I very much like. Sleep, in a real bed, with _covers_? Say it ain't so.

This time I nod much more vigorously, and follow Lariel down the hall. The room she gives me is tiny. Really tiny, with a bed pushed into one corner, a small wardrobe against the wall at the end of the bed, and a window above a table beside the bed. She stays long enough to ask me if I'm comfortable hear, and when I say I am, she bids me a good rest and closes the door.

In less than two seconds, I collapse on the soft mattress, roll up in the wool blanket, and sleep for hours.

When I do wake up again, I'm confused as to where I am. At first I think I'm home; my blurry brain doesn't remember moving from the dungeons to an actual bed. But by the time I rub the bogeys from my eyes and regain cohesive thought, everything comes rushing back to me.

I'm free. I'm out of prison, I have an actual bed and clothes, and I'm feeling well-rested for the first time in ages.

I lay in bed for several minutes before dragging myself up. Through the window - the panes are laced to look like interwoven tree branches, a theme I've noticed a lot around here - the sunset shines behind a distant mountain range. The forest blankets the earth in a brilliant green, plunging into valleys or sweeping over hills and finally stretching up the slopes of the mountains on the horizon.

It's beautiful, and it's haunting. Suddenly I'm very glad that the Elves found me when they did. It looks like there's no edge to the forest out there - I would have died long before I'd found any kind of border.

I set my jaw, blinking tears away from my eyes. There's a deep feeling that I shouldn't be glad or relieved at all, at any of this. It's beautiful, and I'm grateful, but what am I? A human among immortals. I shouldn't be here - I'm far away from home, not among my family and my friends, but among people who look down on me, who think I don't belong here. They're right. Everything about this place prickles my skin.

Shaking my head, I tell myself that crying is long past. It's been close to three months; the question of when I'll return home is slowly giving way to _if_. I force myself to think of puppies and rainbows - literally - and sit on the bed, staring at my hands.

Eventually sleep once again claims me, and I fall into a dreamless slumber for several more hours. The sun greets me the next morning for the first time in months, and as I peek blearily from the wadded blanket clutched around my torso, a knock sounds at the door.


	4. Hey, Look! It's Exposition!

It's not long before I discover that, while the dungeon is indeed hellish, living under the constant scrutiny of the Keebler colony - or, you know, Elves, whatever you want to call them - might be just as bad.

Sure, I get decent food and sunshine. I can take a bath every day if I want to. Clean clothes and language lessons are involved.

But - and call me crazy here - do I _have_ to wake up at the asscrack of dawn and run roughly ten miles every morning? Evidently - or more like annoyingly - that's the case.

The first time it happens, I'm more than a little surprised when I open the door to see a scrawny, light-haired individual squinting at me like he's been contemplating the endless mysteries of the universe. I remember squeaking, "What?" Because that's pretty much the extent of my Sindarin knowledge at the time, and him jerking his thumb behind him, and then me following him to some sort of clearing where a bunch of dudes were doing complicated stretches, and then the whole herd of pole-proportioned dendrophiles charged down a path and left me in the dust.

Every day since then - twenty-seven to be exact, if I'm counting correctly, and I'm fairly sure I am - I've woken up with limbs still sore from the previous day, and once again, I wander through the forest for two hours until I turn a corner and return to the palace. And every morning, I have to mutter curses under my breath to the few Elves who stuck around in the courtyard, giving me condescending looks. _Oh, it's that human again. Pity she wasn't eaten by the giant spiders. Well, there's always tomorrow_.

No, I tell myself, I shouldn't be like that. I'm still a bit too spiteful to fully appreciate all that I do have. Even if I'm punted straight into archery practice after I return - newsflash: apparently they don't give the noobs real arrows, and it's almost impossible to hit a target with blunt projectiles - I can always count on Lariel to sneak me an apple, because there's a ninety percent chance I'll miss the noontime meal.

It's like that when you're a slow, blundering human and you can't keep up with immortals who've been running for the past five centuries.

Goddammit.

That brings us to my next great escapade.

Where are we? Right - twenty-seven days. Twenty-seven days of training for who knots what; I wasn't privy to that information. I'm laying on the ground, panting and sweaty, after a rousing mock-battle with wooden swords. I'm nursing bloodied knuckles and listening to Ettrian, a right snarky little shit, tease me in hard-to-understand Sindarin. Something about swinging like a halfling and "I'd rather descend into elf-sleep for a century to avoid your inherent dumbassery - have your children wake me up after your lifespan".

I mean, points for originality.

Quite suddenly, Ettrian falls quiet, and I roll my head to the side, blowing away a weed that's tickling my nose. Instead, I see boots. Nice boots. Oh, shit. That means someone higher up the food chain.

I probably should've gotten to my feet, but I don't. I just glance back up at the sky. Of course, blocking my vision is the one guy I've been hoping to avoid all afternoon. Our boy made a brief appearance in Chapter Two as Ponytail; now I prefer to call him Mister Soft-Skinned Pixie Man.

His given name is Legolas, though, and if we tack a title onto that - which I'm _supposed_ to - it's _Lord_ Legolas.

Yeah.

That one.

He glares down at me, wrinkling his nose just in the slightest - it shows his princely disdain. Legolas doesn't _dislike_ me; he's made this quite clear. He's just fed up with me "not reaching my potential", whatever that means. Hey, laying on the ground is fun.

Though I can't see Ettrian, I can just _feel_ him holding in his laughter. Like, _ooh_ _, Mom's about to beat your ass_! That kind of smug laughter. Gah, I hate him. Everything he does makes my hair go gray and my short life span even shorter.

If you can't tell, I'm not too fond of Ettrian. Come to think of it, I'm not too fond of anybody.

Eventually, Legolas makes a rather unattractive sound - a half snort, half chuckle that comes as a shock to me, since normally everything this fairy does is very sensual. "Get up," he says. After a moment of hesitation, I sit up, cradling my knuckles to my chest, and finally rise to my feet.

Though I don't meet his eyes, Legolas still speaks; I feel that I can detect that special tone of _ew, how much longer do I have to be in her presence_ in his voice, but I'm probably just paranoid from Daelen.

His sentences are quick and difficult to decipher, but due to several strenuous nightly language lessons, I'm able to piece it together. Something like, "My father has come to the decision that you will be quite ineffectual in the field. Until you are more proficient in weaponry, the guard is assigning you to stable duty. Perhaps you will be of use then."

He turns on his heel, not unlike the queen bees of my high school used to do, and strides towards a group of guards out of my line of vision. My head snaps towards Ettrian when he says, "I doubt it, Leoma. If you're incapable with a mock sword, then how can we trust you with our animals?"

"I can," I struggle to say. "I like – um – "

"Horses?" Ettrian prompts, and mimics riding one, complete with odd neighing noises. "Yeah. Them's the one," I mutter in English, plastering an expression I liked to call the Smarm Eyebrows across my face. Ettrian doesn't comment. The only thing he can understand in English was "fuck" – typical – and he's grown used to me slipping back into the language. Others give me weird looks, but Ettrian – well, he gives me weird looks all the time, so it isn't much of a difference.

Ettrian stops trotting around me and sends me a sarcastic, lopsided smile. "Well, I suppose I'll show you to the stable, then. I imagine your brain is too empty to guide you there on your own."

I aim a half-assed punch, but Ettrian only laughs and dodges, sprinting away. I curse loudly in English; you can guess which word. Ettrian returns it with a hoot and, "Smelly and vulgar! You humans are just full of charm!"

Forcing my legs to run after him, I manage to follow him to what is supposedly the stables. Tucked in a corner of the city that I haven't journeyed to before, I can definitely tell that horses live here. Horses have a very distinctive smell. Not necessarily a disgusting one. Being the strange person that I am, I've always found it comforting.

Ettrian, standing outside the open doors, bows. "My lady arrives."

"Shut up," I grumble, the connotation in Elvish far worse than its English counterpart, and Ettrian's eyes twinkle in response. Ignoring him, I enter the stable and close my eyes, just reveling in the familiarity.

When I was a kid, my mom had always kept a small band of horses. I've grown up around the majestic beasts. This is quite possibly the first time I've felt at home.

Approaching the nearest stall slowly, I gaze in wonder at the creature within. If possible, it's more beautiful than the horses I'm used to. A slender white neck arches delicately beneath a silky mane; the animal's eyes gleam with intelligence not usually found in equines. I extend my hand; the creature snorts, nostrils puffing hot breath over my fist as if looking for a treat.

"Well, I didn't bring you here to marvel at them," Ettrian complains from the entrance. "Aren't you supposed to work?"

"Shut up," I say again, and rub my hand under the horse's mane one last time before assessing the stable. Evidently, they take decent care of their animals, but it seems to me like it's not a top priority. Half of these creatures desperately need to be brushed, and most of their stalls require a thorough cleaning.

I set to work. One by one, I take a horse from their stall, speaking to them in low and soothing English, combing them down until they are as close to gleaming as they can get, and then shoveling the disgusting remnants of hay and manure from their stalls, sweeping it clean, and replacing the hay. Though it's rough, and by the time it's over I have several bruises on my legs from temperamental horses, it's work I'm used to. Work that I can do without fear of repercussion. Hell, I probably do a better job than the Elven stablehands.

From what I can gather, there are two other guards assigned to the stables, and both seem pleased that a human is taking over their job. Twice I have to shoo them from the piles of hay, and once I have to disrupt them from flicking hoof clippings at one another.

If you can't already tell, I take horses seriously.

It's dark by the time I leave the building, after murmuring 'good nights' to each mare and stallion that I pass and making sure the place is locked up tight. My feet ache, but I hold my head proudly. I've finally done something right, which is a cause for celebration in this place where apparently humans are idiots and can't do a goddamn thing except wait to figure out why these goddamn bark sniffers are keeping them around.

And though it takes me a while to find the mess hall from the stable's confusing location, I enter with a sense of belonging, though it is quickly squashed when Ettrian sidles up to me, some sort of pastry in his hand, and asks, "Well? Tell me how horribly you failed."

"I didn't," I reply coolly, swiping for his pastry, but he holds it out of my reach and stuffs the remnants in his mouth before I can get to them. Wrinkling my nose at his leer – his mouth is still disgustingly stuffed with pie -and easing into the nearest seat free from herb munching beanpoles, I tell him, "You're disgusting, you know that?"

"At least I'm not human," Ettrian reminds me, and asses off before I can hit him. Fortunately, I'm not in poor company for long, because my girl Lariel finds me shortly after.

"I heard you are on stable duty now," she says, passing me one of the elusive pastries that I never seem to be able to get ahold of. I nod. "Yeah, it's better than archery, at least."

"And how did you fare with Taeral?"

I blink, doing a mental check of the Tengwar nameplates beside each stall that I've miraculously managed to read. Taeral didn't ring a bell. "Uh, who?"

Lariel looks nonplussed. "The Elvenking's mount. He's known to be quite irritable."

I remember a particularly grumpy stallion who'd almost run over me in his haste to escape into the free world. I'd nicknamed him Elmer, because he seems like an Elmer. "Is he the one with a mane this long and scary eyes?" I have to come up with hand gestures for that sentence, since I'm not too sure of the vocabulary. Lariel seems like she's about to laugh. "No. Taeral is – "

Then she says a very complicated word that I don't understand, and finally manages to convey to me the meaning. Upon learning, I stare at her for a few moments before saying, "You're shitting me."

Lariel ignores my improper use of Sindarin and shakes her head. Because, you see – she tells me that Taeral is a moose.

The Elvenking rides a glorified moose to battle.

And somehow, it's just my luck that my job's to care for this moose. You know, since everyone else has learned to avoid him.

Since Mr. Moose likes to escape every so often to supposedly chase down lady moose.

Wouldn't you know it? Of course they stick the human on this job.

Fun. I'm starting to think that maybe Thranduil hasn't been so kind in giving me the stable job after all.

Finally, though, I slip into a routine. As I build up endurance and speed on the morning runs, I'm able to get to combat training faster, and then munch on some fruit as I head to afternoon activities – the equine babysitter, and esteemed caretaker of His Royal Twig Pranger's war moose – and, if I have a little time, I can practice archery before dinner, and then after the dinner hour Lariel goes over linguistics with me. Usually, one would hate repetition, but in this case, it's nice. It's less confusing. I have shit to do, and I do it.

True, some of those fuckers still exchange bets on when I come back from the run. And I do get into serious trouble for nailing Ettrian in the butt with a practice arrow. And I'm royally ass-kicked every day at melee combat practice. But, in the end, it all distracts me from the horrible truth that I have no clue how to get back to my family. Usually, my days are so busy that I forget that this isn't my home, and these people aren't human, and I don't belong among them. For a few hours each day, things actually feels normal.

Well, that kind of took a depressing turn.

Still – every day, without fail, I'm busy. I don't think about what might be happening back home ( which is probably been good thing, too, because when I'd left, the political situation was going down the drain ). I don't have time to. And that's a hell of a lot better than those days in the dungeon where I had nothing to do but think about the shit back on Earth.

And with this chunk of philosophical exposition, it brings us to my next merry adventure.

( Hint : it ends in death! )


	5. Elrond Deploys Weapons of Mass Annoyance

"Ugh." I groan, and it's about the only sound I can make at this point in time. After a few moments of ignoring my sparring partner Curunir's bemused stare, I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Ooh, too dry. God, why does it have to be so hot? Ignoring the part of my brain that wants to throw a tantrum at weather patterns, I raise myself up on one elbow and ask, "Do you know where I can get some water?"

I've been training for three hours. Well, no, I've been training in _melee_ combat for three hours - before that is archery, and before that is the morning run. Less than ten minutes ago, I decided to collapse in the middle of the training field and wait for death to take me. At this point, it really doesn't surprise anyone. None of the elves are concerned, really, because most know that I'll pop back up in a few minutes and announce that it's time to go make sure nobody has burnt down the stables; some of them, however - like Curunir - haven't been exposed to me enough to know my habits.

Which is why, while he points me in the general direction of the water supply, he stares at me with a blank expression. I'm used to it. There are some elves who, despite being alive for god-knows-how-many centuries, have zero idea how humans work. Eh, it doesn't really matter to me. At least with this training regimen I can gloat over how much healthier I am.

. . . But I still don't have abs.

As I march over to the water barrels, I quickly realize that this is a bad time to have chosen to go, since it's surrounded by the "big kids". I hang back a few feet, wondering how in the world I'm supposed to get my drink without ninja-busting through the ranks of the lords and ladies that so grace our arena today, when someone waves me over.

I pale, and then try to nonchalantly look away. Maybe I still have time to run away.

"Leoma!" Lasgalen hails, except literally nobody calls him Lasgalen. Probably because his name is too close to the Greenwood's proper name. To save confusion, everyone refers to him as Legolas. Once I've called him Laszlo. That didn't end well for me.

With an attempt to conceal my sigh, I head over to the shaded area where he stands with several of his buddies. Amiably, the prince and commander of the guards asks, "Do tell, please, our guests of your rapid progress in our guard." The way he asks me to do so sounds like he wants a winning review. Five stars on Yelp. 'Great place to take the kids. Loved the dungeons!'

So, he wants to brag. I assess his "guests". There are five in total, two blonde and three with dark heads of hair. Two of the dark-haired ones are obviously brothers, given how they are identical.

I raise my right arm, flexing my muscles. "Yo, check out my guns! Aren't they rad!"

Oh, how I wish I did that. That sure would've embarrassed our illustrious prince. But, no - he wants to show these guys how he's cultivated the human girl of mysterious origin. I know what I am to them. A playing piece. If I have any sort of magical prowess, then the Elvenking wants me on his side.

Sucks to be him. In my respect, magical people don't fail high school algebra. Twice.

So, instead, I flash my overlord a winning smile and inform the meager group of my so-called rapid progress. Here is a cleanly translated version: "Three months in and they've already got me fighting spiders."

One of the blonde ellon raises a meticulously groomed eyebrow and comments, "She seems to be more adept in fighting than she is in linguistics, prince."

Before Legolas can reply with some flimsy excuse, one of the dark-haired brothers pipes up, "Spiders? I should love to see how a human fights the beasts, my friend. Shall we form a hunting party?"

I grin widely at Legolas and know, in my heart of hearts, that he is fighting the urge to facepalm.

* * *

It is much later that evening, when I am just finishing up at the stables, that two of the dark-haired ellon wander in, accompanied by Ettrian. Though I'm a tad surprised at the former two, I'm not that phased by the latter. Our schedules usually have vastly differing activities, so he always checks up on me when his shift as a sentinel ends. Except this time he's bringing friends. And those friends want me to fight spiders.

Well, it's not as if I don't deserve it. _But Legolas did want them to be impressed. . ._

"Leoma!" Ettrian waves at me, his arm looking not unlike an overcooked noodle. "My friends here tell me that you have signed up to battle the spiders that threaten our borders."

Here's a little bit of totally necessary backstory on the "spiders". Years and years ago, so I'm told, they plagued all of the Greenwood, giant beasts that often snatched up travelers - and sometimes even the elves that attempted to fight them. This earns Eryn Lasgalen something of a bad reputation, including the name "Mirkwood". They were banished to the ruins of a place called Dol Guldur by this guy Estel and his buddy Mithrandir ( whom the Elves hold in the highest esteem. I think he's a god, or something ). Until recently - now they press their boundaries, often sneaking back into the forest. Every so often, the guard will send out a party of elves to kick ass. As much as the daily routine is growing repetitive and boring, I have no desire to kick the asses of giant spiders.

"Yeah." I flash him a wry smile and dust my hands off on my pants before clasping my arm over my chest in the Elvish salute. This is directed towards the newcomers, not Ettrian. Ettrian and I don't respect each other enough to salute one another. It's such an adorable relationship. "Who are your pals?" _Pals_ can also be translated as _cronies_ \- an informal version of the word _mellon_ , or friend.

"I beg your - " One of Ettrian's buds starts, but he has a grin plastered across his face, the kind of grin Ettrian gives me when he thinks I'm being endearingly stupid. His brother silences him with a swat to the arm, and they both share a look before bowing to me. I watch, unimpressed, as they say together, "We are the sons of Elrond Peredhel, my lady. I'm Elrohir and he's Elladan."

I raise an eyebrow. They don't really specify who is who. I get the feeling they meant to do that. "Look at that. You've practiced."

Ettrian sends me what can pass for a stink-eye. "Leoma, Elrond Peredhel is of the White Council. He is the Lord of Imladris." He prompts me to say something, but I don't recognize half of what he's saying. "That's nice," I finally concede, and Ettrian looks wounded. "Nice? _Nice_? Leoma, it is _majestic_."

I ponder this and finally tell him, amidst curious and less-than-subtle stares from the sons of Elrond, "Twiggy."

They don't quite process this. I elaborate, "You three are twiggy. Twiggy people can't be majestic."

"I hardly think we are tree branches." Elrohir sounds mock-offended, and his brother nods in sage agreement. I wave them away. "I don't have time for anyone to correct my grammar. I'm busy!" I spread my hands, referring to the fact that I'm standing here, doing nothing. Ettrian raises an eyebrow. "I can see how busy you are. Leoma, we came to inform you that we need horses. Seven of them."

" _Seven_? Good god, what are you doing?"

"Why, we plan to hunt spiders, my friend! That was obvious, was it not?" Ettrian moves to one of the stalls, and I don't stop him from opening it and leading out his preferred steed. I'm much too shocked. Horrified, I manage to sound out, "We're not going _now_."

"Oh, yes, we are." God, I want to kick him in the throat for how innocent he sounds. "The sentinels have spotted three less than two leagues from the city. Should we let the horrid beasts run rampant while we sit in luxury? I think not. It is not the way of the elves."

Here, Elladan opens his mouth, and then closes it. He looks as if he wants to argue about what he thinks the wood-elves do in their spare time.

I finally agree, to shut them up more than anything else, and slowly saddle the appropriate amount of horses, all the while loudly complaining about the sentinel's eyes and how I'd like to poke them out of their sockets for being so sharp. Thankfully, my companions know that I am wholly incapable of doing such a thing. Still, Elladan asks me, once he has perched himself upon the back of his mount, "So I am to believe that, indeed, they have _not_ sent you to fight spiders as of yet?"

I roll my eyes as I cinch his saddle. His horse has the habit of blowing herself up while I put on her tack, and as funny as the image is, I can't allow an elf to go sailing off a horse's back due to improper saddling methods. "Hell, no. I'm incompetent with a mock sword, let alone a real blade." I pat his knee as I move to Elrohir's saddle. "Legolas wanted me to say something nice. I thought of the most impressive thing I could."

"I pity you," Elrohir voices, and ignores Ettrian's distance, " _Don't, she doesn't deserve it_ ". I smile up at him, genuinely this time, and the grin falters as he continues, "The men of the north are far more battle-ready, even women of your age. It seems strange to think of a woman who does not know how to defend herself, let alone to _meet_ one. Do you mind me asking of your origins?"

I laugh, and then stop abruptly. "Yes, I mind." Without another word to the twins, I move to the other side of the clearing, to help the prince and his friends. Legolas, who seems to have had enough of me for the day, directs me to my own horse. I grimly climb into the saddle and stare morosely at the attached blade. From what I know of Elven swords, it's sharp and light, an easy blade for a beginner to handle. But, oh god, I'm not even close to ready.

 _Why do I have to be so stupid? White lies never turned into anything serious back home._

 _. . .But then again, we don't have giant spiders back home._

As I ponder the existence of the creatures and how there probably are some in a garage in Australia, the lord prince and commander of the guard calls to me that we are leaving. I drag myself from my thoughts and spur the horse, Daelorgaer, forward. With my eyes firmly ahead, I begin an inner monologue.

 _Dear mom, I'm sorry I didn't learn from the time I lied about running over our neighbor's cat. Now I'm heading to my doom. I love you and I hope you're not renting my room out while I'm away. . ._

 _To Wyatt. If I never return, you get my softball trophies and the comfy socks._

 _Mabel gets my microwave._

 _Opal gets the limited edition DnD figurines._

 _Lariel, I don't have much to leave you except my love. Remember to tell everyone about the loony human who died of arachnophobia._

 _Ettrian gets a kick in the face._

 _Signed, Leoma Firenfeld -_

When I'm finally roused from my thoughts, I realize that the horses are now traveling at a much slower pace, and half of the elves in the company have their weapons out. I lean over to Ettrian and ask, "What's up?"

In that moment, I learn what, indeed, is up. And it isn't from Ettrian's mouth. No, something clacks above me, a clicking noise that sounds like it has emerged from the eighth circle of hell. I glance towards the tree canopy and immediately wish I hadn't.

"Is that a - " I swallow my words and reach around to grip my sword. "Never mind. That's a spider. Should I run?"

Nobody answer me. Mainly because we've been surrounded by three additional arachnids, and while seven against four sounds like good odds, these fuckers are _gigantic_. Easily the size of rhinoceroses, and ten times as horrendous to look at. I vaguely hear a screech from a spider that sounds like it's met the business end of an arrow, and then the battle begins. The spider drops onto me. Well, okay, it drops in _front_ of me, but my depth perception is so off I think it's about to land on me - which meands I roll off of Daelorgaer in an attempt to escape, and my loyal steed darts into the trees.

"Leoma!" Ettrian chastises from several feet away, and I can't tell if there is genuine worry in his voice or not. "Do not just stand there! Fight!"

"I can't!" I'm close to tears and the sword in my hand wobbles dangerously. The spider clicks at me and begins to advance, probably thankful for an easy meal. I swing blindly and the thing hisses, shrinking back. I've managed to take off part of one leg - and for the briefest of moments, a smile crosses my face. _Well, look at that. Maybe I'm not incompetent, after all_.

Here's a pro tip : when you're fighting for your life, don't stand around and congratulate yourself. Maybe, you know, actually fight.

The spider gets over its pain very quickly. And then it skitters towards me. I scream and try not to drop my sword. Jesus Christ on a fucking water ski, this is no place for a college kid. But I don't really have any choice on the matter. _Shit, that's fuglier than I am - and it's getting closer. Now might be a good time to run._

"Leoma!" Ettrian shouts again and I don't spare a look over my shoulder as I force my legs to move. Climbing a tree is too stupid; spiders can also climb and I can't fight in a tree. I might be able to find my way back to the citadel, but if I can't and I'm too far away from the hunting party, then I'd be fucked. But, oh god, I have to get away.

I know the spider is in pursuit because of the sheer noise it makes as it scuttles through the forest. Eventually the din of the fighting fades behind me and I can only hope that the elves deal with those spiders quickly before coming to save my sorry ass, because there is no way I can kill a school-bus-sized monster on my own.

Then I trip on an exposed root. How rude.

"Motherfucker!" I shriek in garbled English as I go down, landing forcibly on my knees. "I didn't sign up for this! If I die, I'm going to haunt this place forever! I'll creep on the male elf changing rooms! I'll - "

The spider catches up with me and I twist around, a rather difficult move given that my shins are still firmly rooted to the ground. I slash out with my sword, trying to remember what Curunir and Ettrian and Lariel and Eglessil have taught me. I remember nothing. Still, the skin - is it skin? Biology is lost to me at this point - over the spider's face is torn open as my blade passes over it. It makes a sound not unlike my previous scream of fear and anger. Then it flings itself towards me, and an arrow impales itself in its head - and just for good measure, when it collapses, I stomp on its legs for several moments before stabbing at its eyes.

"Are you quite done?"

I cast a baleful look at Legolas and fall to my knees, ever the repentant subject. Except I'm not being sarcastic this time. Now that the adrenaline slowly leaves me, I feel utterly miserable. "I'm sorry." He doesn't reply, but I hear him shift, and then I peer through the curtain of dark red curls over my eyes and find that he's perched on a tree limb, staring at me. Waiting for me to finish. "I, um. I didn't mean for the lie to turn out like that - I thought your friends wanted to be impressed, and I said the first thing that came to mind, and I. . .I didn't think." He still isn't speaking. Oh my god, why does he have to be such a mom? The misery is slowly being replaced by embarrassment. Ew. "And I'm sorry that I ran away instead of facing the spider. And you had to chase me. That must've. . .that must've been a waste of your, uh, your princely time."

Legolas is silent for several moments. Then he laughs. I lift my head to stare at him in shock. "I was apologizing! Why are you finding this _funny_?!" To which he hops onto the ground, prancing over to me in the way that only elves can, and lifts me to my feet. He's still laughing, but has managed to constrain it to only a twitch of the lips and a chuckle every now and then. After bowing his head for a moment in an attempt to regain his composure - during which I stand with my arms crossed, wondering why _now_ of all times that the stuck-up princeling has to _laugh_ \- and finally tells me, "You do not have to be sorry, Leoma. Humans are flawed creatures." He stares past me to the spider and his lips quirk up again. "I must admit, I am surprised to find you alive. Ettrian told me that you would not last ten seconds against such an opponent."

"Tell Ettrian to stick it up his ass," I reply, and Legolas raises an eyebrow. I throw my hands up in the air. "You have such a weird sense of humor! Gah!" Then I march into the forest, following the destructive path that the spider had made. Legolas follows, but I ignore his presence until we return to the clearing where the rest of the elves wait on horseback.

I stare at them. They stare at me. Then I turn and notified Legolas, "My horse isn't here."

"Yes, I believe she ran off during the battle," Legolas answers mildly, mounting his own horse. I shade my eyes to look up at him. "So, what do I do? Walk back? Is that punishment or something?"

Legolas glances over to Ettrian, who has been staring at the neck of his mare as if it's the most interesting thing since onagers. His attention is caught when Legolas barked his name, and soon I find myself bouncing along behind him with a sour expression on my face.

"I hope you know that the only reason I'm touching you is because I don't want to fall off."

"Oh, I hope so, Leoma. I hope so."

* * *

 **Here's a short little drabble for all y'all who are still interested. Leoma's having quite a time in the Greenwood, and gosh, the twin sons of Elrond are there to stir up shit too!**

 **Thank you to everyone who reviewed. Every time I get an email for this story I'm surprised. Ten favorites and thirty follows already - this really warms my heart. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter, as crappy as it is!**


	6. Note to Self: Don't Touch Elvish Alcohol

During the time that Elrohir and Elladan stay in the Greenwood, chaos reigns. Within a few days, I get an idea of how the twin sons of Elrond and Ettrian have become friends. The three of them are bona fide assbags - which makes me wonder what Elrond is like, to have raised such monsters. I've been told that he's some kind of beacon of light or something - an all-around good guy. A team player.

Who just happens to have shitty parenting skills.

Exposition can come later, though. First - respite.

"How long are they going to be here?" I groan as I open the door to the room I share with Lariel and promptly fall onto her bed. She glances mildly up from her desk, where she is writing something in loopy Tengwar in her notebook. "Who?"

"Who else?" I bury my face in her pillow. "The demonic elves from Rivendell. I guess their partner in crime Ettrian leaving too would be wishful thinking." At this, Lariel chuckles. I hear nothing for a few moments except the scratch of her quill against the pages of her notebook, but I don't ask what she's doing. That'd be _rude_ , and I'm never rude.

Ha, ha.

Her book closes with a soft _thunk_ and Lariel joins me on the bed, stretching out next to me. "They are like viruses," she says at last. "They come, they disturb everyone's peace, and then they leave." She rolls onto her side and begins to braid a small section of my hair. I snort into the pillow and after a few moments' pause, I ask, "What does _virus_ mean?"

Lariel hums under her breath. She's already given up braiding, since I haven't brushed it in days - combs around here don't work against my frizz. "I wish I had flowers."

" _What_? That doesn't sound like What's-his-face or Who's-it at all."

"No." She raises herself up on one elbow, quite obviously laughing at me. I sulk as I peek around at her. She flicks my temple and I hide my face in the pillow again. "I meant for your hair." She callsed me a silly yet vulgar name in Sindarin, to which I threaten to stick her with her own arrows. She then points out that I would probably rather not spend the rest of my life in the dungeons, and I agree that I've had enough of that place for my lifetime.

"But seriously, Lariel - I still don't know what virus means."

She lifts her hands, waving vaguely at the ceiling, and I don't know how this is supposed to translate the meaning. "It means. . . hmm. Do you know how humans get sick, and elves do not?"

"Yeah, I was sick down in the dungeons and nobody knew how to treat it, so that kind of sucked."

Lariel laugh again, either at my terribly witty, dry humor or remembering me cussing out the healers. She presses a hand to her forehead and continues. "A virus is a. . . type of sickness, I suppose. Another word for it, if you will."

"So you're saying those guys are a disease to the general population?" I raise my eyebrows and Lariel nods absently. "Yes. When I was younger, I journeyed to Imladris with my mother. . . she was a friend of Lady Celebrían's. . . and while I was there, the twins thought it would be amusing to put a live beetle in an apple. Everyone thought it was possessed." She sighs, evidently stuck in her memories. "I was young and gullible then. . . and I was fascinated by the Imladris warriors. The pair of them took me under their wing, and I was flattered, until they made me their errand girl." She casts me a dry look. "It was during that time that I learned pigeon's milk does not, in fact, exist."

There comes a great banging on the door, and someone whines from beyond, "Lariel! Do not tell the human of our past escapades, I beg of you. . . " I sit up, surprised, and demand, "Has that absolute toad been listening in on our conversation?"

Lariel does not look amused. She picks at a loose thread on her tunic and continues. "They stopped teasing me, however, when I found my way into the ellyn's bath house and challenged them to a jousting competition. . . unless, of course, they were too cowardly. Both of them ended up in the infirmary, bruised and doused head to toe in water. Shortly after, their family visited the Greenwood. . . this was, of course, _before_ the spiders were banished to Dol Guldur."

The person beyond the door lets out a loud, exasperated sigh. "Lariel, no. . .I came to ask if you wished to spar with us, and now I am rethinking my offer. . ."

I, on the other hand, beam at her. "Oh, you cold-hearted _bitch_."

* * *

As much as Lariel seems to have been a pranking master on the same level as the Weasley twins, she does not join me in my attempts to wage war against the sons of Elrond Peredhel. In fact, I never even the chance to do _anything_ to them - anything worth gloating about, anyway. Not even the old rigging-a-bucket-over-the-doorway trick.

And so, quite reluctantly, I abandon my attempts to stir up shit with our visitors. It really isn't worth the threat of being thrown to the wolves - or spiders - or even getting a stern lecture from the Prince, who, on occasion, can summon enough macho mojo to actually be scary.

Then comes the day that I walk through Eryn Lasgalen's halls untouched, and as I relax under a tree after practice, I ask Eglessil incredously, "Has the Imladris delegation left yet?"

Eglessil, a brawny elleth of few words, glances down at me, crosses her arms, and stares into the distance. I'd pleaded for a break after a long day of training, to which she's reluctantly agreed. Still, the lady just won't _chillax._ She has to stand there, looking like some strong-and-silent anime type, and _brood_. "No." After a few moments, she elaborates. "The Elvenking cautioned them upon threat of banishment if they did not cease their destruction. The time of Yavanna is upon us, and it is a time of peace."

"What an elegant way of putting it," I comment. "What's the Time of Yavanna?" I taste the words, not fully understanding them. It sounds like something special, and I wonder who Yavanna was - if she is anything like Mithrandir. And then I push away the thought that she might be an actual person that can help me. No, that can't be possible.

"It is a festival." Eglessil doesn't want to share more, and then she kicks my thigh lightly. "Up, now. You have rested long enough."

I groan. "No, Eggy. . . don't make me."

"I told you before, Leoma - call me Eggy and I will keep you here until midnight."

Thankfully, Eglessil, though stoic, isn't cruel. She lets me off just before dusk and, after begrudgingly finishing with my usual work at the stables, I collapse in a pile of hay. It is easily an hour before someone wanders in, looking for me - and I sit up quickly as I realize who it is. "Hey, Ettrian. I totally wasn't sleeping on the job."

He grins at me - or, at least, I _assume_ he grins at me, since it's a little difficult to see in the dim light cast by the lanterns. "I believe you. What are you doing out here? You will miss the evening meal."

"I'm tired." I stretch my arms above my head and accept his outstretched hand. With no little difficulty, Ettrian tugs me to my feet and, thankfully, doesn't comment on how heavy I am. "You know how it is."

"Ah, yes, to be a trainee again." He pokes me in my side and I twist away, laughing. "What is it in English, you say? _Noob_?"

"That sounds _so_ weird coming out of your mouth." My chuckles subside and he only grins maliciously, fingers outstretched in a blatant attempt to find out if I'm ticklish or not. "It is the same with you and Sindarin, Leoma - our language is unflattering coming from a human."

"Why do you have to be so _mean_!" I stumble away from him and, when he realizes exactly how tired I am, Ettrian slowed and extends an arm. I gratefully lean into his side and he supports me like the true friend he is as we walk back towards the citadel.

"Hey, Ettrian, what's the Time of Yavanna?" I remember the brief snippet of conversation I shared with Eglessil earlier. I'm still curious, but the silence is more so uncomfortable, and I want conversation to fill it.

He pauses. "It is. . . you do know what _autumn_ is, don't you?" I snort. "Yeah, seasons are easy. I know what it is." He exhales and I feel him nodding. "It is a period of peace and thanks during autumn. It ends on the last day of Ivanneth, where we have a feast of the last harvest."

"Okay. . . so it's a party." Ettrian shakes his head at my comment, but doesn't verbally correct me. "Who's Yavanna?"

He doesn't answer me right away, mainly because we've reached the barracks' entrance and he's opened the door for me. "Yavanna is a goddess. . . no, a Valar. She is known as the Queen of the Earth. . . a giver of fruits. She is responsible for all growing things."

"Ah. . . I've never been big on religion, so. . . " I hesitate, and Ettrian glances at me. "If you have accepted the existence of Elves, can you not also accept gods?"

Scratching my cheek, I ponder this. "I mean, with this whole _magic_ deal. . . I guess it could be possible, but maybe I just don't like the whole idea of all-powerful beings. It's a little freaky, don't you think?"

Ettrian laughs at me. We've reached the dining hall, just on the tail end of the evening meal, and he squeezes my hand in lieu of goodbye. Then he goes to join his other friends. I don't follow him, since those _other friends_ happen to be my accursed enemies, Elladan and Elrohir.

"How do you fare, Leoma?" Legolas materializes at my side, but he doesn't look like he's come to talk about my health. I manage a sick smile and press a hand to my back. "Oh, you know. Awful as usual. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Yes, I happened by Eglessil earlier this evening and she told me that you were improving with your sword. . . your archery skills, however, are trollish in comparison, and I. . . "

His voice fades out. I'm not really listening; my thighs hurt and my back hurts and my stomach hurts and for some reason my hand is tingling, which confuses me most of all. After all, it's my dominant hand; I don't want anything to happen to it. _Oh my god, if Ettrian put itching powder on my hand. . ._

". . . Leoma? Leoma, are you listening to me?"

My eyes flick back to Legolas and I have to remember to smile. "Oh, yeah, I was. So I'll practice more in archery, I get it."

"I was allowing you permission to attend Yavanna's Table at the end of Ivanneth. I feel that you have. . . earned it." He looks like he wants to swallow his words. Ah, poor guy. My smile grows - genuinely - and I raise my eyebrows. "Legolas - you didn't have to."

"Didn't I?" He returns the smile as best he can, even if it looks a little odd on his face.

"Well, I mean. . . humans aren't - they aren't usually allowed at Elvish festivals, are they?"

"It is not typically the custom, no. Your circumstances are, ah, different." Okay, he's definitely smiling now. Wow, he looks almost adorable. And a little less monotonous.

If there can ever be a deeper meaning behind the words "thank" and "you", it is there when that phrase leaves my mouth. Legolas's eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second, and then he nods. I don't know if he actually understands or not, but suddenly I feel relieved, and I voice loudly, "I gotta sit down."

He ducks his head and leaves me standing there. I sway and then collapse in the nearest seat free from bark sniffers. Then my forehead thunks to the table. In the privacy of my arms surrounding my head, I smile, and then I laugh. And I keeep laughing. Nothing is particularly funny; I'm just relieved. Endlessly relieved.

 _They've invited me to an Elvish festival._

 _One that humans aren't usually allowed to go to._

That means they _accept_ me. At least a little. I might be like the weird uncle that everyone only invites to the family reunion out of obligation, but it's still acceptance. I'm part of their community. Whether they like it or not, I am Leoma, ward of the the Greenwood Guard, trainee, stablehand, spider-fighter, eater of Elvish pies, and endearingly, utterly human.

Despite my attack of the giggles that night, the Elves don't steer clear of me in the following days. Nothing really changes significantly. The halls are the same dark and twisting halls. My practice sword still has the same nicks in it. The bowstring is as rigidly taught as ever. Galion's pie recipe is as delicious as it has been for the past three months.

And yet it is a little different. It shows in the confidence in my step and the kindness of Lariel's eyes. In the green leaves and the warmth of the sunshine. It shows in Ettrian, who helps me brush down the horses, and Eglessil, who tosses me an apple during break. It shows in Elladan - or Elrohir - teasing me about my ears and wondering if they'd ever start to grow pointy; it shows in the parcel that is left outside the door to my room, the parcel that contains an Elvish dress and a wooden comb.

Things are, as they say, looking up.

* * *

Towards the middle of Ivanneth, the delegation from Imladris departs and is met with, unsurprisingly, little tears. Most of the Elves, I think, are glad to be rid of the Sons of Peredhel for the time being. Ettrian mopes for two days and then promptly seems to forget about them - mainly due to the hustle and bustle of the upcoming festival.

Either that, or the fact that the two of us are most often on leaf duty. Ivanneth is similar to October in our world, and the trees have begun to dump more and more leaves onto the training field, which royally sucks most of the time, given that we're in a forest and the training field has to be cleaned nearly every evening. "Leaf duty" is most often given as a punishment, and sometimes as an incentive to work harder - the former in Ettrian's case, and the latter in mine.

Actually, in this case, I'm not too sure if he's actually been assigned leaf duty or has just tagged along to annoy me. Whatever it is, he keeps pausing in between flimsy swishes of his rake to stare into the distance at a couple of servants with a mopey expression on his face. I can't see exactly what the servants are doing, since my eyesight is nowhere near as good as Ettrian's, but it has to be at least something fun because he seems rather upset on missing out.

"Hey, Rian," I call, glancing over my shoulder. He's spent far too long staring and not enough time raking. Now he's giving me something similar to the stink-eye, since I've learned that Elves weren't too appreciative of nicknames. ( But it gets their attention _real_ fast. ) "What?" He whines, and I almost can't hear him as I vigorously - perhaps too vigorously - rake leaves towards the edge of the field. With each day, the piles there grow larger, and I'm pretty sure they annoy the heads of the guard. But most of us on leaf duty are lazy and tired and never do anything beyond the bare minimum. Besides, we'd have a kick-ass leaf pile big enough to jump in and -

Yeah, I'm a kid. Let's ignore that.

"What'd you say?" I call as I deposit my share of the leaves and turn to look at him. Then I laugh at his expression. He looks like a puppy someone has left out in the rain.

"Stop laughing." His face quickly shifts back into a glare. That just makes me chuckle more; not because he's being particularly comedic, but because he just has that effect. Finally I calm myself down enough to ask, "So what's happening over there? Do you think one of them's - " _Oh, shit. What's the word?_ "Sexy?" I finish in English, and Ettrian gives me an odd look. "What does _that_ mean? It sounds - "

I make a vulgar movement. His eyes almost pop out of his head. "Oh. _Oh_. You, Leoma, are of a twisted mind."

I flip one of his moderately finished piles of leaves towards him. He lets loose a girlish shriek and tries to shield himself with the rake, but the damage has already been done. "No, Leoma! Now I have more to do."

"Yeah, that was the point."

I sit on the ground, folding my legs underneath me - criss cross apple sauce - and peer up at Ettrian. "So spill. Why _were_ you looking over there?"

He pauses. "Ai, I forget you are not from here. It is the night before Yavanna's Table. Many of my kinsmen are inside making merry and giving thanks."

"And you're stuck out here because you're a pain in the neck?"

"Precisely. I said the wrong thing to Daelen this morning."

" _Ah_. . . that makes sense. He's got quite the stick up his ass."

Ettrian gives me another odd look. "If you are speaking literally, then I do not want to know how you know this."

 _Are sticks like elf dildos then? Oh, god. Bad mental image. Bad, bad, BAD._

I pull a horrified face and shake my head. "No, it's just an expression where I come from. You almost done yet?"

"Not even close, Leoma," he sounds tired. I grunt in response and reach for my rake. "Alright, then. Move over, big boy, I'll help you so you can go inside and _make merry_. That sounds like a bad euphemism, so. . . I'll probably just go back to my room."

"You do not wish to go to the banquet tonight?" Ettrian sounds genuinely surprised now, like I've said Dol Guldur is prime real estate or something. ( Okay, bad analogy. ) I look over and grin. "Nah. Tomorrow's the main event, right? I'll probably get tired early, so I'll rest up tonight." He knits his brows and doesn't answer, but he looks like he wants to say more. Still, I don't press. We work in silence for several minutes before Ettrian realizes that we're finished. He drops his rake, whoops, punches me companionably in the arm, and then races off towards the citadel.

I stand there for a few moments with a grin on my face. _He's like a kid on Christmas. . . it's weirdly cute_. That smile is still plastered to my face as I pick up his rake, drop them off at the barracks, and fold myself into bed.

"Tomorrow" comes far too quickly for my taste, which sucks because I horribly oversleep - despite Lariel waking up early and puttering around. She leaves before I'm even able to bid her goodbye, not that I attempt to in the first place. She returns sometime around noon, knocking on the door and then entering without me even inviting her in. I glare at her from underneath a mound of covers. "You look like you're my mom and this is my wedding day. Oh god, what are you _wearing_?"

Lariel has donned a dress. Normally, this wouldn't seem very strange, a woman wearing a dress, but I've literally never seen her in anything except her uniform, and I've known her for five months - including the time in prison. During that time, she's worn nothing but her green tunic and leggings. Now she's decked out in a green ensemble, her chiffon belled sleeves sweeping the floor.

My friend glances down at her clothes as if she is genuinely concerned something is wrong with them. "What are you speaking of? Is there a tear?"

"No tear," I say weakly and sit up. "Please don't make me do something weird with my hair like yours." At that comment, she lifts a hand to her complex braids and shoots me an odd look. "Up. Now. You've had your rest."

"Henpecker," I accuse, and she pulls off the covers. I utter a breathy shriek. "Leoma," she says patiently. "You have the honor of attending this festival. Do not deny the invitation of the prince."

Alack, she is right. I clamber out of bed and gesture towards the dress hanging on a knob on the wall. It's usually where I hang my bow and quiver, but I've decided that an unwrinkley dress is more important. "I'm supposed to wear that, right?"

She plucks it off the knob and holds it up. "It is of well make, Leoma. It will serve you well."

 _Serve? That makes it sound like an animal. . . or a hooker dress._ I blink that thought away and slip it over the chemise I wear. For those of you who don't know, chemises are like old-timey underwear. A little weird at first, but you get used to it.

My dress is similar to hers in shape, though gray in color. Its empire waist is held and decorated by silver embroidery. The sleeves, like those on Lariel's dress, brused the hem of my skirt. It's pretty. . . but I've gotten too spoiled with tunics.

"I don't like it," I decide, and Lariel swats at me. "It is a gift. Choose your words carefully."

"Okay," I concede. "It's. . . alright, for a dress."

She seems satisfied with that and plucks the comb from the nightstand. It's made of thin, dark wood, bendable without breaking, and delicately carved with leaves. It has been painted various colors of green. I've tried to use it to comb my hair a couple of times, but I've quickly realized it isn't that great a brush. Lariel uses it for a different purpose - she twirls two thick locks of frizzy hair away from my face, pinning them at the back of my head with the comb. I am, to say the least, impressed with how she can make me look halfway decent with just a twist of her hands.

I peer in the mirror and grimace at my reflection. I've never been blessed by good looks, so I tend to avoid mirrors as much as possible. On top of that, the girl I'd been five months ago is gone. Though it's definitely me I'm looking at, it's a distorted me, something foreign and almost unrecognizable. An auburn-haired and dusky-skinned girl with a too-serious look in her green eyes and a firmly set mouth that betrays a lot more than she wants it to.

I turn quickly from the mirror and wondered if I should break it later. That reflection. . . it unsettles me, kind of the way bad hot dogs do. It leaves a nasty taste in my mouth and a dull ache in my stomach. But I plaster a smile onto my face as I look towards Lariel and chirp, "So, where's the party?"

She sends me a _look_ , a "mom-friend" look, but smiles back. "I wouldn't call it a party, Leoma. . . it's a festival to honor life."

"Pish," I say, but don't argue further. Lariel gestures for me to follow, but as we leave the barracks, I realize that I probably don't need a guide; I hear the festival long before I saw it.

Let me tell you: elves party _hard_. Harder than frat boys spring break weekend. Harder than suburban moms in their forties taking a girl's trip to New Orleans. Harder than. . . insert sexual euphemism and a winking problem in my left eye.

When we arrive, I note that a) the party is held in a hall that I've never been to before, probably because it's an "elves-only" space, and b) it doesn't seem like much of an "honorable" deal. Probably because, at roughly five in the evening, several people are drinking like i's midnight and they still neeed to get reasonably smashed before their Uber arrives.

"Oh, wow." That's all I can muster; Lariel glances at me. "Seems like. . . a nice place."

"Wine is consumed liberally at every meal. At festivals, it is provided tenfold. We shouldn't waste it, should we?" That is Lariel's quip, and she gives me a glittering smile. "Go on. Burn fruit for Yavanna. It's a custom to return part of your meal to her as thanks."

She pushes me towards a long table practically groaning under the weight of silver platters; it's flanked by braziers, which is occasionally blocked by an Elf spooning some venison into the flames or maybe the questionable vegetables that nobody really ever touches.

I grab a plate. Ettrian materializes beside me. I almost drop my plate.

"What the - " I bite back a shriek. "I think we've talked about personal space before, but you'll have to refresh my memory."

"Enjoying the banquet?" Ettrian steps back, giving me enough elbow room to select some meat, some leafy greens ( which proves to be the safest vegetable; there's no way I'm eating space broccoli ) and a pie; I never miss a chance to nab one of Galion's pies. As an afterthought, I grab another for the goddess. Hey, just because you're immortal doesn't mean you should subsist only off charred vegetables that stingy elves burn for you.

As I approach the brazier, I inform Ettrian, "I've been here five minutes. Can't say I've enjoyed much of it. You really burn food for someone in the sky?"

Ettrian wags his finger at me as I drop the pie into the fire and watch as it slowly turned dark - darker - now red. What a waste. "She does not dwell in the sky, Leoma - she lives in Valinor, the land across the sea. The origin of elves."

We turn away from the brazier and somehow wander near the wall as Ettrian prattles on, forgetting that I'm not fluent enough in Sindarin to understand half his words. I lean against a pillar to pick at my plate and ask, "So have you ever been there? The land, I mean. Valhalla."

" _Valinor_ ," Ettrian corrects. "The Undying Lands. And no, I have never been. Once you sail west, you may never return."

I grin at him. _Sounds like a fairy tale_ , I think to myself, but there's no way I'm going to say that out loud; curious is one thing, but borderline disrespectful is another. "Sounds nice. We have something like that back home. . . except you generally have to die after leading a pious, sin-free life to get there."

Ettrian returns my chuckle with one of his own and, like a gentleman, takes my empty plate and hands it to a servant. ( The guy gives him a dirty look. Given that he's carrying drinks, I don't think he's there to collect dirty plates. ) "Given what I've heard of your land, Leoma - "

"Leo," I correct, and he sends me a bashful smile. Whereas elves tend to hate nicknames, I prefer Leo to Leoma - the latter sounds too old-fashioned and weird. "Leo. Your homeland sounds - no, tonight's not a night to be offensive. I'll tell you tomorrow." He punches my arm lightly. I've taught him that gesture. _Joyful, macho_ _camaraderie_ , I told him after he complained that I shouldn't maim him so much. I'm not too happy that he's adopted it, though. Elves don't know their own strength.

We fall into silence, staring out over the sea of people dancing and laughing and "giving thanks", if giving thanks looks like drinking copiously and stealing into back corridors. _But Lariel did say it was about celebrating life. . . oh god, that's a nasty image. Aren't Elves supposed to be super prudish or something? Tell me that's not Lariel. Girl, no, you just_ got _here -_

"Give me that," I say hastily and grab Ettrian's chalice - still half-filled with wine, since he's probably a real lightweight - downing the contents in two swigs, despite Ettrian's squeaked, surprised warnings. "Leo, I don't think that's wise - Leo, no - _stop_. Leoma!"

He grips my shoulders as I sway, staring at him. "What's - " I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "What's wrong with _you_? Also, the fuck did I just drink? It's like. . . " I conveniently forget how to speak. _Holy shit. I can't even remember English_.

"ONE HUNDRED PROOF!" I shriek in English and realize that Ettrian ha propped me against the wall, his eyebrows creased in worry. "Dorwinion wine." He corrects, his lips twitching. "It's. . . it's not meant for human consumption. Come with me, Leoma - if you can walk, I'll - "

"No. _No_. I can go by myself. Don't need Elf help. I'm not a sussy. _Wussy_. Oh my god! I'm stuck in the eighties." It hasn't occurred to me that I'm speaking in English, even if I can understand the words coming from his mouth. It also hasn't occurred to me that my words awere horribly slurred and even a native English-speaker probably couldn't have deciphered it.

Ettrian lets go of my arm, probably because I yank it from his grasp.

And then, in true idiotic fashion, I faceplant.

* * *

The first thing I notice when my eyes blink open is that I smell lavender. "Holy _fuck_." I press a weak hand to my temple. "That is one _hell_ of a hangover."

"Leoma. Leoma, please speak in Sindarin - can you understand me? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Legolas's face appears in my vision and I grumble, "Three. I'm blurry, not _blind_." Pushing his hand away, I sit up. "Okay, where am I? Don't tell me the first time I go to the infirmary is because I got blackout drunk."

Legolas nods sagely. Now that he knows I'm not comatose, I can see the trace of laughter in his eyes. Hidden by disappointment. Hidden by more amusement. "I am afraid so. Leoma. . . Dorwinion wine _is_ extremely potent. Even my kind can get inebriated from the right amount. . ."

"But it was _one_ glass!" I wail. "That's sin where I come from."

"It's Dorwinion." Legolas says as if that's a proper explanation, which it isn't, because I'm still hung up on the fact that I was - am - pathetic. God, even after fighting giant spiders. Okay, _running away from_ giant spiders. "I suppose I should mention that I am not here to listen to your complaints. . . my father sends a message."

I send him a baleful glare. Anything the king says about me isn't really worth hearing.

Legolas clears his throat, or maybe tried to suppress a giggle. I can't really tell. "For the safety of all in attendance, it would be wise not to allow Leoma Firenfeld, ward of the guard, to be in the general vicinity of pious festivals and Dorwinion wine."

He pauses.

"And before I leave, Leoma - you have missed two days of your duty. I doubt the rest in your barracks will be happy about picking up your slack."

Without giving a shit about his station, I throw a pillow at him.

* * *

 **So. . . I rambled. And I'm sorry. It's a bad habit. Notes : Leoma'd get shitfaced off of three tequila shots. Who's to say half a glass of Dorwinion wine _wouldn't_ put her in a two-day coma?**

 **As always, thank you to all who reviewed, followed, favorited, and just took the time to read. It makes me so happy. Y'all are awesome. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and I hope - as crappy as it was - that the chapter at least made you smile! The next one shouldn't be so rambly, but. - no promises.**


	7. The Horrors of the Meat Industry

The days are growing colder and shorter. Often I wake up to see stars still twinkling in the sky, and a thin coating of frost on the forest leaves. By my reckoning, it's now November - though the Elves call it Hithui, or the "month of mist".

More and more often, a party of Elves take a dozen horses and galavant off to some unknown part of the forest. The first time it happens, I don't know what it is or who to ask, since Lariel and Ettrian are been two of the twelve Elves to journey northward; for a couple of weeks, I'm scared to entertain the idea that I've literally lost twelve horses - but then they return with several deer, and I realize that it had been a hunt.

I've never been hunting, even back on Earth; my grandfather had, and even my mom, but I've never gone out during deer season to join them. I always prefer to sleep in. So, when Ettrian comes sauntering into the stable in mid-Hithui and calls, "Hail, my amusing pincushion. Our lord prince wishes me to invite you on our next hunting outing," I stare at him with baleful eyes and try the weakest excuse I can.

"I'm squeamish around blood." Returning to pitching hay into a rickety wheelbarrow, I try to ignore Ettrian murmuring sweet nothings to his horse, but when I turn to bring the soiled hay to the fertilizer pile, Ettrian blocks my path. I set my jaw, complaining loudly, "Look, I know you can hardly go a few hours without my beauty and charm, but I have a job to do."

He attempts puppy dog eyes, but being an immortal warrior, he can't really pull it off. Finally he sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, and says, "Leoma, if I could abandon you to rot in this stable, I would. But the prince thinks it is time for you to contribute more to life here - you remember the prince. Tall, blonde, our future king?"

I narrow my eyes, knowing he has a point, and finally sigh. "I get that, Ettrian, but what am I going to do, kill a deer with my face? We both know I look worse than that manure pile out back. We also both know that I'm useless with a bow."

Ettrian spreads his hands, ever the diplomat. Sarcasm, sarcasm. He doesn't even try to tell me that I'm prettier than I think - which isn't new - but, instead, says, "Yes, yes, but that doesn't mean we won't need someone to look after our mounts when we camp."

I sigh. By this time, I'm well used to the Elves' insults and blatant disregard for my feelings. It's better to just insult myself and let the mighty immortals go to town when it comes to making me feel practically awful. "Ettrian, if I agree, will you leave me alone and let me do my job?"

He beams at me. I take that as a yes. Finally, I say, "Fine. I'll go."

And Ettrian prances towards me, saluting in the ol' fist-over-heart gesture that I take to mean that whoever receives it is held in the utmost honor. (At least, that's what I assume, because the Keebler colony does an awful lot of it around Legolas and the Elvenking.)

Trying for a flattered smile, I whee around his lithe body but almost turn around to dump the manure on said body when he calls, "I never agreed to leave you alone, Leoma!"

Pfft. I should've seen that coming.

The morning that we leave for the hunt is cold and dark. I'm tempted to not even to call it a "morning", because it is only shortly after midnight. The moon still lingers smack in the middle of the sky.

I don a wool tunic, leather pants, and boots lined with fur. Lariel, who at times I want to believe is a goddess, shares the small room with me; she sits on the edge of her bunk, counting arrows meticulously. At one point, when I'm pinning a dark green cloak around my shoulders, she murmurs a vulgar curse and looks up at me, holding up an arrow with ripped fletching. Her dark blue eyes flash, but I hold up my hands in surrender. "Look, I didn't do it. I barely even touch my own quiver."

Lariel's face breaks into a comforting smile and she stands, plucking an arrow from my quiver, which hangs on the wall, probably gathering dust. "I know," she laughs in her soft, lilting voice. "I am sure it was only Ettrian, or some other pest attempting to shorten my state of sanity."

Swinging her quiver over her shoulder and strapping a dagger to her waist, she bids me goodbye and tells me to hurry before the hunting party left without me. I have no problem with that and am even tempted to hide and wait it out until they leave, but in the end, I grab my weapons and pack and head down to the stable.

A group of eleven Elves are milling in the dirt-trodden area in front of the building, with their horses or checking their belongings. I spot Legolas, his hair silvery-blonde in the moonlight, sitting atop his mount, Galroch, with the sort of grace that only Elves possess. Lariel is holding the reins of his horse. God, I realize as I try not to stare; they look like faeries, conversing silently in the moonlight.

Then my view is blocked by Ettrian.

For once, the Silvan elf's expression is serious. I glance up at his shadowed face and then peer around him to the stable. "Lovely morning, Ettrian. Mind moving, so I can get to a horse before the good ones are all taken?"

In response, he only holds something out to me. For a moment, I can't tell what it was - and then I realized it's a knife. The handle is curved and wooden, carved with Tengwar script that I can't read in the nonexistent light. The sheath is leather, and simply stitched.

"A hunting knife," Ettrian provides, awkwardly stuffing the thing in the crook of my arm when I don't take it. I raise my eyebrows. "You're trusting _me_ with another weapon?"

He only shrugs. "Every hunter should possess a good knife. This is yours. A gift from me."

Haltingly, he turns away and hurries towards the stable. After a few moments, I forget about how weird he is and strap the sheath to my belt. Later I would discover that the well-honed blade is sharp on one side and hooked on the other, presumably for cutting the hide from an animal. I would also learn, much later, that the hooked end is really unhelpful when stabbing something.

In the stable, I quickly saddle and bridle my favorite horse, an amiable yet amusing two-year-old gelding by the name of Daelorgaer. Many of my esteemed acquaintances hate that name, since it roughly translates to "Combat Advantage".

Then I steer Daelorgaer out to meet my companions - Legolas, Lariel, Ettrian, a young lord named Fierdan, two guard trainees known as Esta and Iranar, and then five other people whom I don't know. The latter five look towards me with a mixture of curiosity, disgust and bemusement - the question _why the fuck is she going_? written clear over their faces in varying degrees of snottiness. Hey, I'm used to it; they're Elves, I'm human. Basic logic. I don't belong here. Even after the festival - no, _especially_ after the festival. But let's all conveniently forget about _that_ point in history.

As we leave swiftly through the gates of Eryn Lasgalen, cantering at a solid pace through the night, I note one of the trainees' horses slipping up beside Daelorgaer. It's Esta, a bubbly elleth who is about as competent as I am.

No offense, Esta.

"Leoma," she gasps as she struggles to rein in her horse; she's been in the guard for much less time than I have, though you'd think that Elves are immediately perfect at everything. "Is this your first hunt too?"

I nod briefly, and then reach over to grab her mare's reins, ignoring the breathy scream that Esta emits when she sees how far I'm leaning. In a few minutes, her mount is reduced to less of a frenzied gallop, and I make a mental note to exercise him more.

Relaxing in my own saddle once the party slows to a trot, I listen to Esta's chatter. "It is a shame," she laments in a voice nearly too quiet to hear. "I was hoping that you would be more experienced than I, so that I could come to you for help."

I balk at that. "Come to _me_ for help? I thought I was shit at everything around here."

When I turn to look at Esta, I see that she's gone red to the tips of her pointed ears. "I'm sorry, I only - I mean - I have heard tell of rangers, hunters and protectors of the north. I thought that you might be one."

Ah, of course. Not many people actually know of my sordid origins; the Elvenking, Legolas, Daelen, and Lariel being the few who do. Everyone else knows me as the human who manages to intrigue the King enough for her to keep staying at the keep.

Hey, one of my few accomplishments; I'm not going to let that go any time soon.

Somewhere within my cold, dead heart I find enough emotion to smile at Esta. ( Given the time of night and my usual mood towards elves, I'm an asshole; actually, there's rarely a time that I'm not an asshole. ) She returns the smile gratefully, though it drops when I reply, "No, I'm not a ranger. I'm just a Leoma."

"You are good with horses," Esta persists. "Are you not a Rohirrim? You look like one."

I actually turn in my saddle to stare at her. "What? No. What's a Rohirrim?" Needless to say, I'm actually kind of offended – the word seems horrendously close to _horse-man_ , and I do not want to be likened to a centaur, as much as I like equines.

At that moment, a blonde elf in front of us looks over his shoulder with a deadly glare. "Do you wish to scare away all the animals before we can hunt them? Silence your wagging tongues. This is not the time to chatter."

Ooh. Harsh. When he again faces frontwards, I imitate his complaint. Esta attempts a straight face at my mad comedic skills. I wish I could say she fails. Or maybe she just doesn't find me that funny - which is nuts, considering I'm hilarious.

The sun is beginning to peek over the horizon when the trees break and the party of horses comes to a halt on a ledge overlooking a frozen lake. I squint, trying to peer at the place, but since I've been on the back of a horse for hours, and considering that I'm deprived of my usual amount of sleep, I can't really distinguish much.

Then the mist clears and I frown. "Is that - "

"Esgaroth," Lariel answers for me - dismounting not two yards away to lead her horse to the edge of the sludgy lake to drink. I follow her example, leaning against Daelorgaer's flank as he tries to drain the body of water. "What happened to it? Esgaroth, I mean."

Lariel looks towards the distant hunk of burned wood and a strange look crosses her features. "It burned."

"Yeah, I assumed that. Why?"

She snorts, and I get the feeling that she's suppressing a painful memory. "A company of foolish dwarves awakened a dragon when they attempted to take back their mountain. The dragon burned the town. It - " She swallows, and fiery eyes turn to meet mine. I almost cringe at the I see emotions swimming there. "Sixty years, and the screams still linger."

That's all she says before she swings atop her horse and joins another blonde back on the ledge.

I stare back out towards the burnt husk of a town. Dragons. Dwarves. It isn't like I haven't heard about them, but - for some reason, knowing that a dragon did this makes me even more nervous. Makes the whole thing even more real.

In one word, it's disturbing.

Also, fuck those dwarves.

I mount Daelorgaer and follow the Elves away from the shore. A path had been cut between the shore and the trees, well-trodden and twisting away around the lake and towards a looming mountain in the distance.

Ettrian, having made himself comfortable beside me, tells me that the lake is called the Long Lake - wow, real originality there - and the town that burned is, in the common tongue, known as Laketown. He also tells me that the party of Elves rides towards the human settlement of Dale, a city-state closely allied with the dwarves of Erebor - Erebor being the lone mountain now casting its shadow over us.

I barely listen to his history lesson, mainly because I grow bored hearing of how many times a dragon has destroyed a city-state. But when we reach Dale, I have to admit - it takes my breath away. One never could've guessed that nearly two hundred years ago, it'd been destroyed.

Clusters of humans in bright clothing emerge from their homes to stare at us as we pass through the wide streets, or peer through their windows at the party of woodland elves. I stare back at them, my eyes round and curious. Humans. Humans, like me. God, they are endearingly normal looking. Even the air smells human. Granted, at times when the odor thickens, I lose my appreciation of "the smell of human". Judging from the other Elves' expressions, they don't really enjoy it either.

Ettrian explains, in a hushed voice, that the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen come to trade with the humans of Dale after each hunt, which is surprising to me, given their feelings towards people like me. But as we pass a bustling marketplace, I realize that the city is much more than what meets my eye; hundreds of people, not just human, hawk their wares in a language I can't understand. I find myself peering in the direction of the marketplace even long after we'd passed - the sparkles of necklaces and enticing fresh fruit having caught my eye.

Then we are past Dale and camping at the edge of the forest, tying our horses to trees and building a roaring campfire. As I reach into Daelorgaer's saddlebags, I ask Lariel, who is beside me, "Do I need to help set up tents or something?"

She pauses, and then laughs at me. "No, though your thoughtfulness is appreciated, Leoma. We sleep under the stars. It is quite refreshing."

She misses my gaping expression; she's already turned away. As she walks towards the fire, I squawk, "Refreshing? It's so cold! I'll freeze!" And then I rant in English that my hands and other extremities are going to fall off, which will render me unable to wield a bow and thus be no help to my companions - causing many of the Silvan elves to glance in my direction worriedly.

God, I hate them.

Night falls and we cluster around the fire, my cloak wrapped around my shoulders. Dinner is rabbit and Dorwinion wine, the former courtesy of Fierdan, who had romped into the woods earlier in search of vittles. Though the animal is tough and I don't enjoy the taste, it gives me some energy and makes me less angry towards Ettrian for dragging me out here.

Ettrian, in fact, is sitting to my right, so close to the fire that at times I worry that his eyebrows might singe off. But he jokes nonetheless with his friends and, once the conversation turns to placing bets on how incompetent I'll be, chuckles at me mercilessly. It's only when the embers die down to a dull glow that I look around at the remaining Elves - Ettrian, an elleth in leather armor known as Daerdes, her brother and my dueling partner Curunir, and a particularly pretty ellon called Galachon. The other members of the party have long since retired, either due to a headache, bad company, or the prospect of the next day.

Which leaves the fun people. Daerdes is in the middle of telling Ettrian and Galachon about a wyrm she'd found in Ered Mithuin, while Curunir pokes holes in her story and I add my own dry, asinine humor until Ettrian pulls me into a headlock to keep me from interrupting.

"Oh, sure," I complain loudly. "Throw me in the fire. It's warmer there, anyway."

"Are you truly cold?" Galachon asks incredulously, as if he can't fathom that it's below freezing, and Daerdes passes me the cask of wine conspiratorily. "Drink," she urges. "It'll warm you."

But Curunir holds her back, arguing that we'd already seen me drink Dorwinion wine and it didn't end well. They engage in another squabble, whereas Ettrian releases me from his grasp, unclasps his cloak, and tosses it around my shoulders.

"There, my pitiful human." He manages a wry smile, embers flickering in his gaze. I don't comment on how otherworldly that makes him look. There are still times that I can believe that they aren't supernatural creatures – and with that expression on his face? No, this isn't one of those times. "You should sleep," Ettrian continues, and at last I nod. Managing to find my bedroll, I pull it as close to the fire as I can bear.

My fingers and toes slowly thaw, but I find myself staring at the sky for a long time, until finally the voices of Daerdes, Curunir, Galachon and Ettrian die away. Then I fall asleep, my dreams plagued with dragons and fire burning in Ettrian's eyes.

Someone nudges me awake; I open bleary eyes to find Legolas staring down at me. "Don't kick me," is the first thing out of my mouth, and he replies with, "Do not sleep in, then. Get up, or you shall force us to miss the hunt."

Turning on his heel, he walks away.

I realize that it's barely morning, which means I must've had around three hours of sleep. But I've survived on less. Cough, college finals, cough.

Grumbling about how I never wanted to come on this hunt anyway, I wriggle my way out of my bedroll, tying my hair into a large poof at the back of my head. My hair hasn't grown much longer in the time I've been away from home, which is good, considering I can barely manage it the way it is. How long has it been - seven months? More? And I haven't had decent shampoo in ages. It sucks, but it doesn't suck quite as bad as the lack of, you know, other toiletries. Specifically those made for women.

There is no breakfast. There's only a brief tidying of the campsite and an immediate march into the woods. Legolas splits us into four groups of three, stealthily moving through the trees on a mobile hunt for - well, whatever we happen to be hunting for.

Let me tell you, I am not excited about this. My grandfather had always had a deer stand, which means he would sit in a tree for several hours and hope that an animal chanced by. Elves, it seemed, aren't hip on this. So that means that my two hunting buddies - Fierdan and an adviser to the King, Maidhîs - are stealthily moving through the trees several feet ahead of me and I'm tripping along behind them, trying to avoid becoming entangled in briars and trying even harder to keep my temper under wraps.

It's the red hair; my mom always told me I have my dad's temper. I can't tell you the truth to that, since I never knew my dad, but if he's half as much of a fiery asshole that I am, then my mom was probably right to leave him.

I freeze with my left leg still wrapped in a vine when Maidhîs holds up her right fist, effectively shutting me up. "Far right," I hear her murmur to Fierdan. "A small herd. Three hinds, two yearlings." And then Fierdan breathes, "Eleven points on the stag." I get the feeling that they would've fist bumped in victory, if they knew what the gesture means.

Also, _eleven_ - _pointer_? It sounds like a basketball term, but since I'm not sure, I yank my leg free of the vines and peer over Fierdan's shoulder. It takes some work, since he's a lot taller than I am, but he notices me trying to sneak a peek and moves to the side. I barely note him turning and tromping to the north.

Maidhîs glances at the expression on my face and laughs quietly. "Have you never seen a deer before?" She asks and I shrug. "No. I never lived in a place that had them."

She draws her bow and notches an arrow, nodding at my reply. "Then I am sorry at you must see them as prey." With that, she lifts the bow to her eye and fires - straight into the lungs of a doe.

The herd looks up, bemused, and then one catches sight of me standing in the brush. It bolts, heading roughly northwest - and the rest follow, bounding after them. I look to Maidhîs for guidance, but she's melted into the forest. Cursing, I wish I'd taken a crash course in deer hunting before charging after the herd.

Though I can never hope to be as fast as they are, I happen to be decently in shape. It's at least three miles before my lungs start to hurt. I slow my pace, glancing through the unfamiliar forest and suddenly coming to the realization that I've never been in this part of the Greenwood before, and that I probably never should have run off on my own.

You live, you learn, I guess. Except I have this horrible habit of living and not learning.

Notching an arrow in my bow, just to be on the safe side, I turn in a full circle, eyes searching the forest around me. Not surprisingly, I don't see anything. I look to the sky; the sun had risen only a few hours ago, which means that I know which way is east and west. Disgruntled, I head south. But nothing looks familiar. I'm definitely lost, but I can make it to civilization. And if not, hey, I'm rid of those pesky tree humpers.

 _SNORT_.

I turn wildly. Nothing's there. But something had snorted, and then it huffs, as if annoyed. Right in my ear. I hold up my bow, but my muscles are beginning to tire. Shit, shit, shit. I'm totally gonna die.

Then I walk through a clump of bushes and come across a buck.

I guess he's a buck, because he certainly isn't a stag. He has six points on his antlers - maybe he's a year old? Two? I didn't really know deer that well, so I can't tell.

"Hey," I say softly, and he stares at me with giant eyes, and then turns back to his bush to continue eating. It's evident that he's never seen a human before. He has no reason to fear them.

I raise my bow.

The buck falls to the ground, my arrow buried deep in his side.

"Oof." I fall to my knees with an exhale, yanking the arrow from the buck's shoulder. Of course killing him had been easy, but now I don't know what to do with the body. I feel like I should pick it up, but ew. Because, you know, it's dead.

So I decide to sit beside it and wait.

Hours pass, and the sun slowly climbs to the middle of the sky. I doodle in the dirt or talk to the dead deer. Having spent months in prison, I'm not too bored in comparison. At least there's sunlight, and warmth, and plants.

I'm in the middle of recounting the synopsis of _Death Note_ to the deer in English when Fierdan appears in my line of sight. He pins his eyes on me, does a double take, and jogs over.

"Leoma," he scolds. "We nearly had to call off the hunt. Prince Legolas thought that dying alone in unfamiliar woods was a cruel fate. Come, let me - "

He's grabbed my arm, and then he notices the deer. Furrowing his eyebrows, he asked, "Did you kill that?"

I nod. "Yeah, it was - it was easy."

"It's small."

"What, did you want me to find a troll or something? It was the best I could do."

He laughs at my perturbed expression and props the deer across his shoulders as if it's the easiest thing in the world, though it's also kind of gross.

"I doubt the meat is salvageable." Fierdan sends me a dimply smile. "For it is long dead. But I congratulate you. You have succeeded on your first hunt, and you are not even an elf."

I feel that the praise I was getting is undeserved, since the deer had been right in front of me, but then again, Fierdan is ridiculously lovely and always gives people compliments.

We reach the campsite sometime in mid-afternoon, and I'm thankful that I've reached a fire, though I'm much less thankful that the elves have decided to butcher a deer right in front of me. Okay, I'm squeamish, I'll admit it. So I turn a blind eye and ignore Daerdes's invitation to "come learn how to skin a hind".

Once I make the mistake of looking over and _oh god that's disgusting_. Let me tell you, Elves look elegant in nearly everything they do. Gutting a deer is not one of them. Several hours pass until Daerdes crouches by me and claps my shoulder, her hand thankfully free of blood. I glance over and her hazel eyes gleam as she says, "We ride for Dale to trade. Do you wish to join us, or those who return to the Greenwood with the meat?" She jerks her hand over her shoulder, to where half of the Elves have mounted their horses, deer strapped to their saddles. Lariel is among them. Then I see Ettrian waving at me from his spot next to Daelorgaer. And I simultaneously remember the shiny things I'd seen in the market the day before.

I can go home with my girl Lariel, or I can be among the humans, plus a bona fide asshole. I stand, dusting off the seat of my pants, and shoot a quick smile towards Daerdes. "Can I go to Dale? I'd. . .I'd like to see. . ."

"The market?" Daerdes must not have realized that that isn't what I mean. She smile understandingly - _aw, the little human wants to look at the jools_ \- and I decide not to correct her. After a quiet goodbye to Lariel, I skip towards Ettrian.

He is grinning, I notice as I approach, quite widely. "Couldn't be parted from me?" He teases, handing me Daelorgaer's reins - ooh, what a sweetheart. I make a face at him. "Yeah, well. I'd rather go see shiny things than get back to a citadel where everyone hates my guts."

As we mount our respective steeds, Ettrian says, "We don't _all_ hate you."

"Yeah?"

"I don't, at least."

"Could've fooled me."

I spurn Daelorgaer forward, leaving Ettrian in the dust. As my horse trots forwards, I look over my shoulder and raise my eyebrows comically at my friend, who still stands at the edge of the woods, looking in my direction with a bemused expression plastered clear across his face.

* * *

The market is, in one word, loud.

The sheer amount of people jabbering to each other about prices or hawking their wares is enough to make _my_ ears throb, let alone the poor hyper-sensitive ears of my immortal companions. But, holy shit - it's _cool_ , and that means everything is instantly forgiven. Even the smell. ( It smells really, _really_ bad, in case you couldn't've guessed. )

Ettrian accompanies me across the market; the rest of the Elves - Daerdes, Fierdan, Galadhon - are selling the deer for a hefty amount of coin. I've looked at necklaces, armor, more necklaces, and a carton of strawberries that Ettrian proclaims were the worst fruit, because apparently he doesn't like seeds.

Then I see it.

And grasp Ettrian's arm excitedly, pointing across the market. "Look! Ettrian, look over there! Do you see it? I've never seen anything so absolutely amazing in my _life_."

". . . It's puppies." Ettrian narrows his eyes as he follows my hand to a stall across the way, beside which is a pen filled with the furry little creatures. I try to contain my excitement. "They're the first puppies I've seen in months. Ettrian, please, can we get one? Just think how it'll boost the guards' morale. Or _my_ morale."

Galadhon materializes beside me, but I'm too busy staring at the puppies to scream in surprise. "What are we looking at?"

"Dogs," Ettrian says in the type of weary voice that only cat people possess.

"Dogs?" Galadhon's voice brings on a twinge of excitement. "Leoma, you like dogs? Come, let's buy one. Nobody can stop us if there're _two_ of us." He swings an arm over my shoulders and all but drags me across the plaza. We peer into the pen, squealing over each fat little creature as they bark and wag their flowing tails in a very generic puppy way. I, having not seen animals besides horses and Ettrian for months, am ecstatic.

The vendor comes over and speaks to Galadhon in Common Tongue; since I don't know the language, I don't even bother listening in. After a few moments, Galadhon pats my arm. "I chose one - that one - and he says he'll have it ready in an hour. Shall we browse until then?"

"As long as we can ditch Ettrian," I say jovially, and Galadhon laughs. "Everyone in the guard has said that at least once. Come - let's go look at the armor, human pincushion."

"Not you too," I groan; apparently the nickname has spread from the Certified Asswipe. "I've gotten a lot better."

"So you have. . .but that's not to say you wouldn't die within twenty seconds of a real battle." He sends me a sidelong look, then chuckles again at my perturbed expression. "It's alright, Leoma. I doubt you'll see a battle." He pauses. "For a long time yet, at least."

"What?" I still - in fact, I stop walking in the middle of the marketplace, and Galadhon turns to face me, opening his mouth as if he wants to say something. He is interrupted, however, by Daerdes, Fierdan, and Ettrian. Daerdes swings her arm around Galadhon's shoulder. "What are you two looking at? _Armor_? It's dwarven make, Galadhon, you can't be serious. . ."

I glance from Daerdes to Galadhon and he raises his eyebrows as if to say, _sorry, subject changer_ \- _we'll talk about this later_. He shrugs Daerdes's arm off his shoulder and replies delicately, "It's not for me, it's for Leoma. Chip in to buy it for her, we don't want her to become any more of a target in practice than she already is."

Daerdes tilts back her head and laughs. "Ha, ha. As if I'm giving up my hard-earned coin for dwarven armor." She ducks her head towards me. "Ah, apologies, Leoma. But I just can't support the dwarrows and their sympathizers." With that, she kicks Galadhon's shin. I stare at the pair in bemusement.

 _Aren't they supposed to be, like, a thousand years old? They act like children. Really scary children, but. . ._

"Daerdes, you'll never believe what the pair of them bought," Ettrian interrupts, probably wanting the spotlight on him for a few moments instead of the squabbling elves. "A _dog_. They bought a dog, and it's horribly ugly and small and it'll eat our food and I'll have to _pet_ it and - "

I throw up my hands in a _surrender_ gesture. "It's for _morale_ , Ettrian. Just think how much harder I'll work if I have a dog to come home to!"

"It's my dog," Galadhon cuts in with a good-natured glare in my direction. I snort. "Yeah, no, it's not."

"I bought it."

"You bought it for _me_."

"I never said such a thing!"

"Stop," Daerdes commands, obviously the one in the group who has adopted the role of leadership. "If you two don't stop quarreling, _I'll_ take the dog." "As if you weren't arguing two seconds ago," I murmur under my breath.

Ettrian laughs, way too loudly for a marketplace; I swear, four people turn to give him the stink-eye. "Keep those thoughts to yourself, Leoma. You seem to forget that Elves have superior hearing." He tickles my ear; I fight him off and swore.

In that manner, the hour passes - the five of us roaming through the market, exclaiming over pretty things like jewelry and unfairly hot merchant chicks, until finally we round back to the booth with the dogs. Galadhon goes up to the counter; I wait with the rest of my buddies with bated breath and shining eyes, occasionally pinching Ettrian when he complains about how much the animal would stink.

 _Whoa, wait, why is he arguing with that guy?_ I raise my eyebrows quizzically when Galadhon returns seemingly empty-handed, his face a little paler than usual.

"Um, Galadhon - where's the dog?" I ask, not quite catching on to his expression.

He lifts something well-wrapped in brown paper.

I stare at it. Then at him. Then at it again. "Don't tell me - " A pause. Then -

" _He thought we were gonna eat the dog_?" I shriek. Behind me, Daerdes hisses at the noise. "What's going on? What's - " She glances at Galadhon, and then at his package. "Oh, no. . ."

" _He killed the dog_!" I yell, and turn to Ettrian, jabbing a finger in his chest. "This is your fault. If you hadn't been so mean, this wouldn't have happened. I can't believe they eat dogs here! I mean, is it a cultural thing or do they just like consuming puppies? What the _fuck_?"

Ettrian grabs my hand, probably to try to stop me from poking a hole straight through his torso. "Lesson learned, Leoma - don't trust merchants. Dogs are horrible pets, anyway." He looks to Fierdan and Daerdes for help; the usually quiet Fierdan coughs into his fist, not wanting to contribute. Daerdes stares at the three of us for a moment before shaking her head. "Return the dog, Galadhon. We have sold and bought what we need; we should return home now." She starts to walk back to the horses, but turns and sends me a sad look before she makes it there.

"I'm sorry about the dog, Leoma."

I rub my eyes. "Yeah, it's okay. At this point, I shouldn't even be surprised anymore." With that, I follow her to the horses and mount Daelorgaer, feeling heavy of heart and mind.

* * *

 **Maybe I should've put a warning on this chapter. Some of it's funny. Some of it's not. The dog section is adapted from a story I heard from a friend. It's awful, but Leo needs some awful things, right? Cough. Anyway, I apologize for the wait and the potentially crappy chapter. Soon the Greenwood Arc will be finished and I'll actually get to the main plot of the story - perhaps that'll keep me motivated.**

 **As always, thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, and followed! It means a lot to me. Thank you again.**

 **Ciao - ! Hopefully the next chapter won't be as late.**


	8. I Disappoint Myself In 8,000 Words

"Holy _fuck_ , it's cold!"

My scream is, unfortunately, carried into the wind, which is so loud I can barely hear myself think. Ettrian, next to me, peers in my direction - or, at least, I _think_ he does, since the edge of my cloak keeps flapping in the edge of my vision. "I know," he replies - it really sucks that elves don't have to shriek to amplify their voices, what the fuck is up with their vocal chords? - and reaches out to pat my shoulder consolingly. "But you're wearing three cloaks, Leoma, and you raided the guard for the rest of your clothes. I think you'll be fine."

"Fine? _Fine_?" I turn and slump against the edge of the wooden turret. "My toes are freezing off. It'd be better if it was snowing, but no, it's just torture. Why was I assigned to this again?"

Ettrian doesn't bother to answer, because I already know. Sentinel duty is a step up from dealing with the horses. In fact, it's a real job for the guards. I get to sit in high places and see if there's anything weird going on in the woods - or sit with whoever I'm assigned to and watch _them_ watch for anything weird going on in the words. It's usually Ettrian that I'm with, because putting us both out in a guardtower in the middle of the forest is one of the few ways to get rid of us.

I always knew Legolas had an ulterior motive. What an asswipe.

Especially _today_ , of all days. I'd woken up to what I thought was Lariel screaming. Turns out it's just the wind blowing at gale forces. Hurricane type shit. According to the elves, this is a normal early winter for them. For me, who grew up where the air is so still and humid it feels like you're being smothered by a wet dog bed, it's horrible.

The first time I'd been put on sentinel duty, I thought I would die. Actually, I still think I'm going to die, but I'm a little more accepting of it.

"Leoma, stand up." Ettrian's voice suddenly goes sharp, and I scramble to my feet. "What is it? What did you see?"

"Maybe it's nothing." His voice is so hushed that I can hardly hear him. "I thought I saw something. . . right over there, between those trees. Do you see?"

I look accordingly. "I don't know, Ettrian. . . you have built-in binoculars and I have crappy human eyes. It could be an ogre, or it could be a tree moving in the wind."

He doesn't question what binoculars are and doesn't correct me that ogres simply don't exist in this part of the woods. ( Read: _this part of the woods_. That means they existed elsewhere, and I sincerely hope everyone was lying when they told me that. )

"Should I grab my weapons?" I question and Ettrian sends me a sidelong look. "Leave them. I doubt you could shoot _me_ in this wind."

"Try me," I say wanly and he gives me a shit-eating grin before his rare serious face returns and he peers back out into the forest. "If only the wind would still - "

 _THUNK_.

"What was that?" I ask, trying to discern if it was Ettrian kicking something in frustration or if a limb has fallen on part of the guardtower. Ettrian leans over the turret. When he arose, he reaches for his arrows. "A grappling hook."

"A _what now_?"

"No time. They're climbing. Can't tell how many. Leoma, it's a party of orcs." His breath seems to slow. "They sometimes try to kill the sentinels to stop reports of their advancements. Go light the signal fire, Leoma. Then you'll need to fight. I mean it."

His steady voice scares me more than anything I've ever experienced. That bully in the fifth grade. The first night I'd landed here. The arachnids I'd faced months prior. The puppy-killer. It doesn't match up to this moment, when Ettrian is arming himself for a battle, a real battle with things with swords and claws and intent to kill.

And there are just the two of us. One of whom is absolute shit with weapons.

I turn and sprint to the other end of the platform, clambering to the pile of wood that serves as a signal fire. _Flint. Flint. Flint. Where's my flint? Holy fuck, holy fuck, I'm going to die. Oh, there it is._

With shaking hands, I light the fire and watch as the flames consume the pile of wood slowly but deliberately, not deterred by the harsh wind. Then, in the distance, I see another fire spring to light, and breathe a sigh of relief. _Thank god_.

The calm doesn't last long as I hear another _THUNK_ , and the growl of an orc before the clashing of blades. I reach for my sword and turn to see Ettrian wielding his own double-bladed sword, having abandoned his bow in melee combat.

 _Dude, that thing is fugly_.

And I'm not talking about Ettrian. When I'd first heard about _orcs_ , I found myself expecting the 5e version - seven feet tall, built like a linebacker, with tusks and some actual semblance of clothes. As it is, I'm kind of underwhelmed. What passes as orcs here look like zombie cavemen, all fangs and smushed faces, short starved bodies, and covered with what passes as an impressive amount of bones stitches into furry skins.

My shock doubles when one of the motherfuckers blocks Ettrian from me and raises his sword; I, naturally, scream and feebly raise my own blade in an attempt to parry.

"Focus!" I hear Ettrian shout, and then he sticks a sword through the thing's neck. It splatters thick, foul-smelling blood all over my front, but hey, at least I'm not dead. Ettrian's eyes flash as he rounds, putting an arm out as if to shield me. "If you can't fight, then stay back. But if you can, then _do so_."

Unpopular opinion: serious!Ettrian is really hot.

Also, he's super mean.

"Yes, sir," I pant, and for once, I'm not making fun. I steady my sword as Ettrian glances over the side of the guard tower, and then leaps back as an arrow spirals past his shoulder. "Stay away from the edge," he warns, and I think, _gee, ya think_? And then, in true high fantasy action movie fashion, the orcs swarm the platform.

* * *

Haha, I kid. Well, partly.

About half a dozen clamber over the edge and I feel like crying, but Ettrian doesn't seem deterred. He slams his fist into one's face and kicks back another a la roundhouse style. _Wow, whatta guy_ , I remember thinking, and then block my right shoulder as an orc rushes past me.

This time, I won't let myself get distracted. I exhale and push back with my blade, then slice across the stomach - _fuck, that's some thick leather_. I parry again, plunge the sword into the orc's stomach, and yank it out ( albeit with some difficulty ) as the creature slumps forward.

There is, however, no time to celebrate my first kill. Another shitty monster decides I look like fresh meat. Cue the dramatic running. Cue the me-acting-like-a-badass. Cue them feinting and coming down hard on my thigh.

 _Wait, that's not supposed to happen_.

I barely register the pain. Is there pain? Weird. Where's the pain?

 _Holy shit, he's going to slice my head off_.

Miraculously, I manage to dodge, dragging my sword behind me - and _that's_ when my thigh starts to burn. A very slow tingle at first, and then hot and piercing. But my lungs are inflating and I try to ignore the burning sensation as I struggle to raise my sword above my head. Newsflash: it doesn't work. The bloodied weapon slips from my palms and I utter a breathless scream.

Cue the deus ex machina - or elf ex machina.

The first thing I hear over the wind is the clear sound of a horn, followed closely by Ettrian's garbled Sindarin. I couldn't tell what he was shouting, partly because it's hard to hear over the wind and partly because I'm quite preoccupied with trying to stay alive.

The good news? Most of the orcs decide I'm less of a threat and turn to meet the newly arrived squadron of elves in battle. The bad news? They've left a couple to dispatch me – you know, just in case. The ultra-bad news? My leg feels like it's going to fall off, and my arms can barely hold up my sword.

Judging by the looks in the orcs' beady red eyes, they know how tired and in pain I am. I heave my blade, at least prepared to go down fighting. _So. . . this is how it ends._

 _At least it's better than being eaten alive by spiders._

I'll be honest, in those few moments, I genuinely think I'm going to die here. There have been certain times in my life when I've felt like the grim reaper is so close he's salivating on my neck – finals week, stealing my mom's car, the night I arrived in the Greenwood ( and an honorary mention to any time Daelen was in my general vicinity ). . . but this is the real thing. The orcs have scimitars and teeth and bloodlust and they are _coming for me_.

Yeah, the exposition ends here, because the orcs are closing in. I try to raise my sword, forcing what I hope is an intimidating yell out of my throat, and accept death with what little dignity I have left. One of the swords comes arcing down on my shoulder – I stumble to the side as my thigh gives out, an actual _helpless whimper_ , the kind puppies make, emitting from my lips as I try to regain my balance.

I expect another hit, but the pain never comes. I briefly wondered if it's so fast that I didn't feel it and I'm already dead, but when my vision clears, I realize that the orc has slumped, an arrow sprouting through its skull. There is no time, however, to thank whichever elf has been looking out for me. The remaining orc isn't hesitating - he charges, his battleaxe raised, and I back up.

Then my legs hit the wall of the guardtower, and I realize with dread that there is nowhere to run. The orc is five feet away - four - I level my sword, a feeble attempt at a last line of defense. I don't expect it to help matters much; the orc can easily knock it aside to get to me. But. . . he doesn't.

A stroke of luck. A happy accident. The stars align. Whatever happened, something added up just right; maybe I've drawn my sword too close for him to register what is happening, or maybe he's been too blind with bloodlust to notice. But my sword slides through his leather armor with ease, the momentum driving the body up to the hilt.

Unsatisfied by the guttural sounds he's making deep in his throat, I drive the blade into his gut again and then once more for good measure. He chokes and falls on top of me, almost too heavy for me to push away with my injuries. By the time I've thrown the sword to the ground and managed to throw him onto the ground next to his buddy, blood is pumping out of the shallow gash on my shoulder, and I have to dig my nails into my thigh to try and distract myself from the pain of the wound there.

 _Fuck. If I don't get an infection from this orc blood, it'll be from shitty medieval hospitals. Or both._ The blood feels oily on my hands, and I try to wipe it on my cloak, but it doesn't help much. Deciding to ignore it for the time being, I stumble over the two bodies at my feet, focused more on my grody hands than the orcs' comrades lying dead or dying around the platform.

Slowly dragging my attention away from my hands, I lean against the wall of the platform, straining to listen for the sounds of battle above the wind, and when I can't place anything, I force my eyes to the ground below.

Ettrian. . . easily identifiable with his chestnut hair, the darkest shade I've seen in the Greenwood thus far besides my own. A whoosh of air leaves my lungs when I see that he was alright, and I don't even realize until this point that I've been worried about him.

There are other elves - maybe half a dozen, moving too quickly to recognize. Except one. A flash of silver prominent on his brow. Legolas. ( _Seriously, who wears a crown to a battle?_ ) He wields wicked-looking two daggers, and wields them well. Say what you will about him being an utter dork, but the guy at least knows what he's doing on the battlefield.

 _Battlefield_.

Just thinking the word leaves a nasty taste in my mouth, though it could also just be acid reflux from the pain. Yeah, let's avoid thinking about my circumstances. Happy thoughts. Sunshine and puppies. Caramel ice cream. Going to the gym just to see Steve from Art History do leg day.

 _Leg day_.

"Fuck," I hiss rather loudly, sinking against the wall and peeling back my blood-covered hand from my thigh. The blood seems to be congealing again, but from what I can see, the gash isn't deep enough to cut bone, maybe severing only the skin and first layer of muscle or so. It seems to have avoided the artery in the leg ( wow, whatta smart kid. I'd be dead by now if it hadn't ). The skin around it is already looking discolored, and I have a fleeting thought of _poison_ \- but settle for the hope that it's just a bruise.

 _I really should've taken those first aid classes_.

Lifting my eyes, I desperately look around for anything that can help me medically, but it seems that elves shun first aid kits; aside from the sparse number of bodies, the platform is empty. With a labored sigh, I start to rip the edge of my cloak, stopping every now and then to rest my shoulder and puff hot air onto my freezing hands.

 _You can do this. You can do this, Leo. Just a few more breaths_.

There.

With a relieved sob, I wrap the section of cloth around my thigh tightly in the hopes that it can work as a tourniquet or bandage. It has to last - I hope it can last - at least until I can get to the infirmary.

Gathering strength, I peek over the wall again, my eyes flicking around the elves. Have they _still_ not killed everything? Losers. But the orcs _ar_ _e_ thinning, and those that remained seem torn between running the fuck away and trying to push the elves back, which isn't looking good for them, however viciously they fought.

Just watching it makes me sick to my stomach, but I can't tear my eyes away. Like a train wreck. Or watching your friends nearly get brutally slaughtered by fantasy creatures I never would've believed existed a year ago.

It is about this time that I reach the pinnacle of my stupidity.

I watch as an orc charges at Legolas, engaged in combat, from behind, his scimitar aimed at the Prince's neck. I shout; my voice is lost in the wind. And before I know what I'm doing, I've reached for a grappling hook, stumbling towards the thin wooden ladder propped haphazardly against the wall of the tower ( back home, that ladder would be in violation of _so_ many health and safety codes ). Sliding down - my ass hitting the frozen ground and nearly breaking my tailbone - struggling to my feet - falling on my face - pushing myself up again, the heavy grappling hook swinging from my hand.

"Hey, fucktard!"

I throw the hook. It lands feet from Legolas, but the orc stops, his eyes following the rope to where it dangles from my hand. I know I'm an easier target, and I know that he would rather come after me before Legolas.

Here's a pro tip, kids. Don't - _ever_ \- put yourself in danger for an elf. They're dumb, prissy, and think they're better than you, even after you save their life. It doesn't matter what kind of Legomance or Johanna Lindsey novel you think you're in. It's generally considered a bad idea to die.

My feet stay rooted to the ground as the orc approaches, swinging his scimitar from hand to hand. I can tell from his beady eyes that he knows I'm hurt and I wouldn't get very far if I tried to run. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I plead that someone would notice, someone would help.

It's my right leg that gives out first from pain, and my left followes from fear, but my eyes never leave the approaching monster. His teeth are bared in a smile. _Mom, why didn't you raise me with more common sense?_ I remember thinking. _Here it comes. I'm sorry I'm a dumbass, Ma_ _._

And Ettrian jumps on the orc's back, burying his knife deep in the orc's neck. The latter goes down, gurgling, and Ettrian rolls off of him towards me. I register his bloodied hands squeezing mine and then patting my cheek. "Stay awake, Leoma. It's too cold for you to fall asleep - don't - "

"Such an anime move," I tell him weakly, and my forehead hits his chest as my tired eyes slide closed.

* * *

It doesn't hurt as much as I expect it to, and I'm not about to go on some lengthy monologue about death.

My leg. I can wiggle my toes and it's. . . not painful. That confuses me, since one of the last things I remember is my leg being on fire.

"Urgle," I groan intelligently and lift myself up on one elbow. "Whozzat?"

"Lay down." Someone pushes me back into the bed and I blink, trying to clear the fuzz and static from my eyes. "That hurts. _Bitch_."

"Stop talking." I register Sindarin, but my mouth is speaking English all on its own, and I try to switch, but the words don't come easily. "I'm - where's - Ettrian?"

 _Dumbass. Why'd you ask about him first_?

A knot forms in my throat as I remember his warm hands on my cheeks. Gross. No. So gross. Anything else - think about anything else.

My vision finally clears and I stare into the face of an elleth I can't recognize, her features youthful yet hard and her hair pulled back from her face. She has a receding hairline, which I didn't think exists in elves. She looks like the type to punch someone if they mention it.

"Um - "

"Water." She tilts a cup into my mouth and I splutter. It's warm, scalding my tongue - which seems too large and dry to fit in my mouth - and my parched throat. When I've finished the cup, she leans me back in bed. "You need rest, Leoma. You are still healing."

"From _what_?" I'm half convinced the whole battle was a dream. I can't feel anything - my shoulder doesn't ache, my thigh isn't quaking when I shift it. Her eyes bore into mine, and I glance at my shoulder to make sure they haven't amputated my arm. Okay, not that one. Phantom toe wiggling? I lift the sheets. Still have both of my legs.

After I drop the sheets, I lift my hand to slap her arm. "Don't look at me like that. You scared me."

"They brought you in nearly frozen and bleeding out." The nurse speaks in monotone, lifting a spoonful of broth to my lips. I swallow dutifully. "As if hypothermia wasn't enough, wounds from rusted orc blades fester and often lead to limbs dying. You are lucky you have access to Silvan medicine."

"Or I would be dead by now?" I swallow another spoon of broth.

"Oh, no, you would be lying in pain after a leg amputation and praying for the sweet release of death."

Who _i_ _s_ this chick? Usually I like people who bring me food, but hearing her speak is about the farthest from comforting you could get.

I push the spoon away and turn my head, but it chases my mouth and wiggles. "Eat. The Elvenking wants to see you as soon as you regain your strength."

 _Elvenking_? The boss man? The _Padrino_? I glare at her balefully, crossing my arms. "That's just a lie to get me to eat, isn't it?"

Her icy blue eyes stare into mine. If she's lying, I can't tell. Uncomfortable with the way she doesn't blink, like, at all, I open my mouth, and she all but shoves the spoon in. "Good girl." _And condescending too_. "I'll tell your comrades that you're awake. Twice I had to stop the dark-haired one from sleeping outside the door."

"I don't want to hear about him," I snap, since thinking about Ettrian makes my lungs feel odd, and she almost smiles.

The broth is slowly emptied, and then she leaves my bedside, pulling a white curtain around the bed and blocking the view of sunlight and an empty infirmary. ( I get the idea elves don't get hurt very often, and I've already been stuck here twice. _Twice_. )

I could say it's great fun just laying there in bed, dozing on and off, but that would be a lie. I'm bored and only get more frustrated, at times thrashing around in childish irritation like a toddler with a confiscated toy. Complete with the whining sound effects.

Other times I lay there staring at a crack in the ceiling until my eyes slide shut and I wake up minutes later with a jolt, only to repeat the process again.

No food. No books. No company. Elven hospitals are _hell_.

And you know it's bad when you're starved for human interaction so much you'd take _Daelen_ over nothing.

When I do get a visitor, though, it isn't Daelen - or Ettrian. It's Daerdes and Galadhon, bright smiles on their faces and their arms filled with goodies. I sit up in bed. "Wasn't expecting you two. Isn't it sparring right about now?"

Daerdes purses her lips, spilling her basket over the end of the bed. "We slipped away. Lariel said to send these to you. She's hunting the. . . orcs that got away."

"Not alone, right?" I pick through the basket's contents. Fresh apples, meat pies, and a cork of cider. Galadhon ses the stack of books he carries on the chair and squeezes my cheeks like I was three. "No, she's with a small party. Ettrian went with her. He said he - "

Daerdes kicks him and reaches for an apple. I slap her hand away. "It's for me. I'm the invalid. What did Ettrian say?"

Galadhon shares a long look with Daerdes. "He had to get away. He waited outside the infirmary door the first two nights; the medics wouldn't let him in for fear he'd disturb your rest. He was getting so restless that when he heard the party was scouting rumors of more orcs, he joined immediately."

"Dumbass." I struggle with the cork of the cider. Daerdes helps me and takes a swig, laughing at my perturbed expression. As she hands it back to me, she ruffles my hair. "He'll be back, Leoma, and you know the first thing he'll do is come see you. Meanwhile, you need rest."

"I brought books to keep you company," Galadhon volunteers. I glance behind him to the chair. "Novels?"

"Alas, no. Language books. You always need improvement, sweet human."

"Go away." I flop my hand towards them. "I've had about enough of you too. Hey, if there are any more pies, bring 'em around, alright?"

Just before the curtain blocks me from view, Daerdes sends me grin and a nod. "Unless I get to them first, Leoma. Rest well."

Then I'm alone again with a stack of textbooks and a half-eaten pie in my hand. With a sigh, I reach for the book at the top of the stack and fall against the pillows, cracking open the leather cover.

The next few days pass without incident; the stash of food disappears and I make my way through the books one by one, struggling through unfamiliar words and calling in the scary nurse - I learn her name is Ruith - to help me with vocabulary ( which she rarely does ). Daerdes comes to visit me again with Curunir; Eglessil, who spars with me every other day, comes by with a whole _wheel_ of cheese, which I have a hard time convincing her I don't need. Galadhon brings a cat and Ruith bans him from the infirmary when the cat escapes from his hands and he has to chase it around the room.

Most of the time, though, I keep myself company, reading or taking short walks around the infirmary, clutching onto Ruith's arms. My leg spasms once and then Ruith switches my tonics, assuring me I will be as good as new in a week. A week passes, and the next time my legs give out it's for an entirely different reason.

* * *

"I think tomorrow we might be able to venture out into the hall," Ruith tells me, her voice just barely hiding the proud tone behind her words. "You're getting stronger, like I said you would. And you didn't believe me, did you?"

"Where I come from, it takes months for this stuff to heal," I grumble through gritted teeth, forcing my stiff right leg forward. Ruith shakes her head. "Such is the way of humans. Primitive creatures, the lot of them."

"That's not racist at all." I glare at her through thick hair covering my eyes, hardly catching the slight twinkle in her eye. "A few more steps, Leoma. Then we can turn around."

I take another step forward, this time with my good leg, and ease my weight off of my right, sighing in relief. A creak of a door and floorboards reach my ears; Ruith's head snaps up. "We aren't taking visitors at this time, I - "

Then she stops. "There, that was three!" I look at her triumphantly. "Let's go."

But by the time my eyes follow her gaze to the door my knees feel too weak to even turn around, let alone walk.

Ettrian glances between Ruith and I, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet. "I was hoping I was a bit of a special case."

"What the _hell_ did you do to your arm?"

That's me - of course it is - elves don't curse nearly as often as I do. The dark-haired elf blinks at me in surprise and glances at his bandaged left arm as if he hasn't even noticed it is, you know, _bandaged_. "It's nothing, Leoma. I should be asking how _you_ are."

 _Dumbass_. "Why did you have to run off without me?" My hands leave Ruith's arms and I hobble towards him, my fists clenched. "I missed you! I thought you - " _Were hurt_. "I thought you'd make some dumb mistake without me and wouldn't. . . come. . . back." The last few words trail from my mouth slowly and quietly, almost as if I don't want to say them. Or don't want him to hear.

Ettrian, who doesn't know how to deal with serious moments, laughs at me. "I can't understand why you'd think that, Leoma. Dying? Me?" He pulls me into a hug and I let my forehead hit his chest limply, breathing in the scent of pine needles and clothes warmed by sunshine. "I'm Ettrian," he murmurs quietly in my ear, his lips probably too close to be socially acceptable. "I just don't see it happening."

Ruith coughs. Loudly. I don't move; Ettrian lifts his head and, from what I can gather from his voice, informs her with a glare, "We're having a moment."

"Have your moment next week." She pries Ettrian's arms from around me. "She's still healing, and these walls are _my_ domain. When I say get, _get_." Ettrian steps back, his dark eyes twinkling in that familiar mischievous light, and his gaze bounces from her to rest on me. "I'll be back, Leoma. Wait for me?"

"Okay." My voice almost fails me, but if he notices my tone at all he doesn't let on. I watch him prance through the door and down the corridor, his form still visible as Ruith drags me back to bed.

Back amongst the soft white sheets of the infirmary bed, I press my face into the pillow and let out a loud groan. Ruith, just outside the curtain mixing my tonic, snorts - a sound one wouldn't think to hear on an elf ( I'll tell you a secret: most of 'em only _pretend_ to be high and mighty; they're all just as crude as everyone else deep down ).

Pushing back the curtain, she pats my shoulder. I lift my head for her to pour the tonic down my throat, and she stares at me with those icy, unblinking eyes. "I do not concern myself with others' private matters, Leoma, but I feel I must tell you something."

 _Here it comes_. I roll my eyes. "Sure, _Mom_."

She ignores the quip, the bed dipping as she sits near my knees. "If what I saw with the ellon back there indicates anything of your true feelings. . ."

 _SCREECH_. Ruith ignores the indignant noise ripping from my throat as well. "The fact remains, Leoma, that you are a human and he is a part of something much greater. You are too different, and you must not let your emotions - "

I smack her in the face with a pillow. She stands passively, her cheek slightly red. "Ruith." I grit my teeth, trying to sort my thoughts into calm orderly sentences. "I'm very grateful for all you've done to help me, but you're _nuts_ if you think I'm going to let someone dictate my life for me."

Whether I like Ettrian or not. . .

Which I _don't_ , thanks for asking. Ew. Why should I? He's so gross and dumb, and it's not like he's ever been nice enough for me to think he's boyfriend material. That isn't happening; besides, what's the point of liking him if I'm not going to be here much longer? Hypothetically speaking, of course. . . I _don't_ like him. . . and I shouldn't, because it's only a matter of time before I fid a way back home.

 _But_ if I did think he is. . . nice or whatever. . . _hypothetically_. . . what business is that of Ruith's?

The medic rolls the tonic bottle between her fingers and finally says, "You are healing at an impressive rate, Leoma. I'll see how you're faring in two days. You might have the luck of getting discharged."

I don't reply, pressing my face back into the pillow and not emerging even when her footsteps recede.

When Ruith sends me packing two days later, I don't hesitate; more than happy to change back into the forest-green guard's uniform and ditching the infirmary gown for what I hope is the last time, gathering the language books and snacks that I've been given, not even saying goodbye to Ruith.

( We get it; I'm petty like that, and we're moving on from my assholery. )

Lariel is the one waiting outside the infirmary for me. She pushes off the wall when I exit and immediately grabs the books from my arms. "You shouldn't be lifting heavy things so soon," she instructs, her green eyes searching my face. I scowl. "I feel fine, Lariel. Seriously. Let's go."

She takes note of my cool tone and sighs as we begin walking. "Maybe physically, but. . ."

"I'm fine." I try to make my voice a bit more amiable, but I'm not sure if I've succeeded. Truth be told, I'm more than a little frustrated since the only thing on my mind for the past few days has been a pesky elf named Ettrian. But not in that way, I swear.

Still, I can't help thinking about what Ruith said. . .

And wanting to kick her because she's _wrong_ , dammit. Half-elves exist! They're a whole _race_ in Dungeons and Dragons. And their parents have to come from somewhere.

Lariel nudges me with her elbow. "I think I know what will cheer you up. Our prince wants to speak with you."

"I thought it was the Elvenking." I twitch at the name, remembering what Ruith said about the king wanting to see me when I regained my strength. Lariel pauses. "Well, I should say both of them want to speak with you."

"That can't be good."

We walk in silence for several moments before Lariel stops at our door. She smiles at me. "I think you're too pessimistic, Leoma. Good luck."

"Wait - _now_?" I don't want to endure them now. I want to take a nap. In my own bed. In my own clothes. Without the smell of hospital permeating the room. But Lariel shakes her head. "I'm afraid so. You know where the throne room is, right?"

"But - what if - they're not expecting me!"

"I think they know you've been let out of the infirmary today, Leoma. I was the one that told them."

Ignoring Lariel's dry tone, I scuff at the floor with the toe of my boot. "You're a sucky friend."

"I know." She pushes open the door with her hip. "Like I said - good luck, Leoma."

Lord knows I probably need it.

 _Here goes, Leo. You can do it_.

I turn down the corridor and stop just as I take a step, color draining from my face. _What if he finally found a way for me to go home?_

The Elvenking? Unlikely. He only keeps me because I'm was different - because I'm from this world - because he doesn't know the leverage I could have on other leaders. _You've got an army? Sweet! I've got this girl who travels through holes in space-time or whatever. Oh, you don't have a time traveler? Loser._

Of course, after nearly a year living among these elves everyone has pretty much realized I'm pretty lame, time traveler or not, and the Elvenking only keeps me around now for shits and giggles.

But if he has found a way to send me home. . .

I stare at the ground, forcing my legs to move faster and almost tripping over my own two feet.

Wyatt - Mabel - Opal - _Mom_. I miss them all so much. I miss home and my shitty apartment and Little Caesar's pizza - this chapter is not sponsored - and Saturday morning cartoons. I want to curl up on my couch at home and fall asleep to a shitty romcom and not have to wake up at five in the morning to run around a forest.

I don't want to live in a place where literal _orcs_ could kill me.

I'd be lying if I say I don't want that to be what the Elvenking wants to see me for.

But I'd also be lying if I say I want to leave all of this behind.

 _Because if I left. . . could I ever come back?_

My palms hurt from my nails digging into them and I loosen my clenched fists, wiping my palms on my tunic. "You're paranoid, Leo. Absolutely paranoid. Whatever it is, let's get it over with."

Though in the dark corner of the hallway I feel very brave and full of myself, my courage abandons me minutes later when I arrive outside the enormous doors of the throne room. The last time I'd been here. . . wow. Has it been six months ago? Seven? A lot has changed since I'd been dragged through these halls as a prisoner.

 _But now's not the time to think about that_.

The guards flanking the door nod their greeting to me; though I can't place their names, I've probably met them before. Everyone likes to take a poke at the human during sparring time; there's a time when I would've hated that, but I've come to learn to appreciate the practice.

Then the doors swing open, and the air leaves my lungs in a _whoosh_.

 _One step, Leo, that's all it takes. Now another. Keep going. You're almost there_.

Though I haven't seen the Elvenking face-to-face for quite some time, he isn't the kind of person who has features someone could just _forget_. Detached, assertive, wise, powerful. Gallons of charisma practically pours from his _face_.

I once might've called someone like him hot, but it'd be weird to call _him_ hot. He is just that - a King, and all you plebs probably have never seen a King before, so I'll tell you how it is. There's a hierarchy, and somebody as low as me ha no business thinking about the top dog's appearance, like, at all.

I know my place - on my knees in a bow, which I quickly drop to. Averting my eyes, I wait for his command to stand, and it came with a simple, low "Rise." The Elvenking doesn't have to raise his voice to speak; he's too cool for that.

I rise dutifully, but keep my right arm clasped over my chest as a show of respect. After a few moments of looking me over critically, he finally speaks, his voice deep and commanding but somehow completely detached and apathetic. "How long has it been since I allowed you to join the Greenwood Guard?"

I rake my mind, unsure of the exact time. "Seven. . . months. . . I think. Your Majesty." My heart in my throat, I wonder if he could chop off my head for being unsure about something, but that was a little overboard.

He obviously doesn't mind, since he keeps rolling. "And during that time the commander and captain of the guard have charted your progress. I am most impressed with your improvement, but far more so by your recent feat fending off orcs along our borders." He pauses. I cringe inwardly. _Feat_? I'm just doing my job. What is he talking about?

"Leaving the safety of the sentinel tower to distract an enemy from a fellow member of the guard with little regard to your own life is something I cannot ignore."

I understand only half of that, still hung up on the fact that I'm even _here_.

"And after careful consideration by myself and the leaders of the guard, I offer you to pledge loyalty to this throne and join the guard as a true warrior."

 _Wait. . . what_?

I glance around the room, trying to avert my eyes while I attempt to gather my thoughts. Guard, guard, Legolas, Daelen, guard, guard. _Legolas_?

 _Oh._

Right.

He's the Elvenking's son. The son of the Elvenking. That I risked my life for.

That makes a lot more sense.

I drop to one knee again, bowing my head. "I - would - be honored, my King."

What else can I say? Refuse the king's offer? That usually doesn't fly well. But am I _honored_ by it? Partly. Part of me is beaming with pride, ecstatic that I've finally done something right to get accepted in such an enormous way. The other half is screaming internally, heart in my throat, wondering just how I could royally fuck this up.

When I next look up, the Elvenking is extending his hand to me, a small band of gold inset with opals glittering on his finger. "Then swear to me."

Well, with an offer like that, how can I refuse?

Daelen steps forward, the movement drawing my eyes to him. "Repeat what I say," he hisses to me, and I glare. Apparently absence hasn't made his heart grow fonder. Asshole. "I, Leoma Firenfeld."

"I, Leoma Firenfeld."

"Do swear with honor that I, a servant of the Elvenking, will faithfully discharge his orders and the functions of the Guards of the Greenwood with discipline and haste. Through my promise I will serve the Elvenking and his heirs as a warrior of the Greenwood until my death, unaffected by fear or mercy, love or hatred."

I repeat the statement without stuttering, which surprises even me. A kiss to the ring seals my promise, and I step back, hoping that there aren't actual tears in my eyes. There probably are, given that everything is blurry at the edges of my vision. Or I'm just that close to passing out. I wouldn't be surprised at either, given my feeble emotions these days.

After that, everything is kind of hazy - I'm fairly sure the Elvenking compliments me, and Legolas claps me on the shoulder so hard I almost lose my balance; then I', dismissed because the king has Important Kingly Things to do and I'm hindering his time. Honestly, I'm just glad to be out of the throne room - as soon as the doors close behind me, my legs begin to shake - a lot - and I press my forehead against the coarse wooden wall.

 _Dear god. Did that actually just happen, or am I dreaming?_

I'm not entirely sure which I want it to be. On the one hand, acceptance. On the other, my life tied to a king I don't even know. But it _has_ happened, and now I'm a part of the Greenwood Guard. Fully-fledged. Leoma Firenfeld, warrior of the Elvenking.

Yeah, I really wasn't ever expecting my life to get this crazy. But since I'd fallen into this place, I find myself a lot more willing to accept these kinds of weird-ass things.

Somehow I force my legs to walk away from the enormous doors of the throne room until I reach the training fields - empty and cold and swept by a blustering wind that threatens to knock me over - and, beyond that, the stables. I haven't been here for a long time; I've been too busy training and my duties have been moved elsewhere. The animals within, though, remember me - raising their heads and nickering softly, hoping for a treat, or shaking their manes in irritation as I move past their stalls to collapse on a pile of hey.

 _Ow_.

For the record, don't fall face-first into a pile of hay - it'll poke your eye out. I roll onto my back, staring at the rough timbers of the ceiling. It's been awhile since I've done this - just laid in the warmth and comfort of the stable and not had to worry about anything.

By the time I've folded my hands underneath my head, my thoughts have already wandered back to home and how much I wish that's what the Elvenkind wanted to see me for. And when I speak - quietly, just to myself, as if even the horses are listening, I'm surprised that I remember English. "Mom, are you proud of me yet?"

I can very clearly recall the picture of my mom - young, proud, vibrant - that sits on the hearth in my grandparent's house. The one in her Marine Corps fatigues, taken just after she'd joined when she was twenty. That's about all I know of her younger years - she joined the Marines, stayed a year, and ditched for reasons she never told me. I'd always guessed it was just too hard for her, but she seemed too brave for that.

And now I'm wearing a uniform too, a uniform that I don't think I can ditch as easily as my mom could. There's too much baggage with this. There's a king involved - there is _Ettrian_ involved. I've pledged myself to this now. There is no turning back, as sick as the thought of responsibility - and _dying for it_ \- makes me.

"I'm sorry, Mama." The whisper comes out harsh and dragging. I don't expect to say it out loud, and almost surprise myself when I realize it's me who's spoken. _Sorry? For what?_

For this. For all of this - for choosing a king over finding my way back to her. Suddenly it all seems selfish, the whole _acceptance_ deal. After all, why should I care about what they think when I'm just biding my time until I find a way back home? Why have I - taken that offer from the Elvenking? Why have I stayed?

"You look pensive."

Well, that easily answers all of those questions.

I force myself to sit up, staring balefully at Ettrian. Figures how he's always here to see my ugliest faces. But this time. . . it doesn't seem like he's here to tease me.

He lowers himself into a crouch, peering into my red-rimmed eyes with some semblance of a concerned expression. "You're _crying_?" Incredulous, but not malicious. "I thought - we were all - are you not happy with the Elvenking's decision?"

I scrub at my salt-rimmed eyes and force a nod. "Yeah, I - I am. I just. . . it feels like my choice is either serving the king for the rest of my life or going home. I don't want to. . . stay here forever."

"Oh." He drops his gaze to the dusty floor. "It's your choice, Leoma. You aren't shackled here."

 _Oh my god, he looks like I just kicked his dog._

 _Metaphorically._

 _He doesn't like dogs._

I chuckle, but it's hoarse and humorless. "Hey, Ettrian. I'm not leaving any time soon. I just. . . this is temporary. There _has_ to be a way home, and when I find it - "

He stands, a quick movement that leaves me blinking. Blinking at the hand he extends to me. Blinking at the bright smile that crosses his face. "The future will come to pass, Leoma. There's no use crying over it now. Your first night as a guard shouldn't be spent pitying yourself in the stables. Come with me."

And for some reason that I can't even fathom, I take his hand.

* * *

"Where are you taking me?"

My question goes unanswered. Ettrian glances over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling. "You should know by now that it's a surprise. Don't ask questions."

"But I'm tired! We've been climbing for, like, twenty minutes."

He squeezes my hand and my ears flame, though he doesn't notice given that he's already turned around. "Rest assured, Leoma. We're almost there."

He leads me up a flight of stairs circling into a domed ceiling and I huff. "It's about time. You. . . "

 _Suck_.

The breath leaves my lungs in a _whoosh_. "What is this?"

Ettrian gives me a sidelong look. "It's the _sky_. I know you are a human, but if you are _that_ stupid. . . "

I punch him in the arm, almost missing since my eyes are glued to the expanse of blue above me, and he shies back, whining. "Don't ruin the moment. It's beautiful."

"You've. . . never seen the sky before?"

I shrug halfheartedly, as if any movement is going to break the moment. "Where I'm from, the stars aren't really visible. And here. . . I'm always asleep. So this is new."

Ettrian waves his hand in front of my face, drawing my attention back to him. The moonlight gives him an ethereal glow, though I'm not sure if that's my imagination or just weird elfy side-effects. "I have a gift for you - well - it's not just from me. We're all happy for you and proud of your progress, so. . . "

He steps aside. "Galadhon said I should make it up to you after what happened."

The dog - small, wiry, probably still a puppy but surprisingly strongly built - thumps its tail against the floor of the viewing tower. I fall to my knees. "You didn't. You hate dogs!"

Ettrian lowers himself to the ground beside me, folding his legs. "I did. He's not too bad."

I pat my hands against the ground; the dog comes running, all forty pounds of wriggley, happy puppy. I catch it as it barrels towards me and smothers my face in kisses. "Well-trained, too. How many commands does he know?"

"Sit. Stay. Attack." I look at Ettrian as he shrugs. "He's a guard dog. . . or training to be one. I thought you could use extra protection, being as weak as you are."

I nudge him with my shoulder. "Don't be mean. This is a moment for us."

"Is it?" He grins down at me and my heart thrums in my throat. There used to be a time when I could look at him without going completely red. The bygone days.

"I - I thought it was."

The dog licks my chin and our gaze breaks. I flick my eyes to the puppy and rub behind its ears. "He's. . . really cute. Thank you, Ettrian."

The ellon leans back, letting his auburn hair fall down his shoulders as he gazes into the sky. I realize I'm staring and try to look everywhere else but him. "It's just a dog, Leoma."

He's right. It is just a dog. So why do I feel like it's something more? No, that's probably just me being paranoid.

As for Ettrian. . .

I rub my fingers through the pup's coarse gray hair. Whatever happens, I have to forget about him and his stupid smiles and dumb jokes. He's an elf. That. . . us. . . at risk of sounding like a bad romcom, it can never work.

But I don't move from my spot, and Ettrian, turning to smile at me again, puts his arm around my shoulder. "It's a bright sky tonight, Leoma. Forget about everything else and look at it with me, alright?"

In the worst decision I've ever made, I agree.

* * *

 **Guess who returns from the dead with a new chapter - it's yours truly. I cried at various parts writing this chapter. My emotions are frail, to say the least.**

 **As for the writing in this chapter, it feels really slow and. . . bad. Things will pick up soon, I promise. At least this isn't like my debut novel. . . I can afford some crappy writing, right? It's fanfiction. Stroke my ego in the reviews and tell me I'm great and hilarious.**

 **As always, thank you to everyone who reviewed! Leave some constructive criticism in the reviews. Or don't. It's up to you. Hopefully the next update will come quickly as well!**


	9. He Makes Me Crave Sashimi

"Sindo! Oh my god, he's eating a shoe."

I rush towards the almost fifty-pound dog, his fast-growing body easily wriggling away from me as he darts away with some poor sod's work boots wedged firmly between his teeth. "You can't _do_ that, you dumbass dog! When you eat things, _I'm_ the one that gets in trouble." I launch myself towards him and he stares, golden eyes dubious. Then, two seconds before I hit the ground, he steps back.

 _Ow_.

The shoe drops next to my head and I hear a wet snuffling in my ear. There he goes, trying to get on my good side. Sindo licks my hair and then whines, upset that I'm giving the floor more attention than him.

"You're going to be the death of me."

I sit up, and at the same time, Sindo settles on his haunches, licking his lips expectantly. Tough, buddy. You're not getting treats this time. I loop the leather lead through what passes as a collar and stand, gloating over the now overexcited puppy. "You're in my hands now! Ah, sweet victory. Come on, it's time to train."

And let me tell you, dragging fifty pounds of dog that does _not_ want to go outside ages me about fifty years. To be honest, I don't really want to go outside either - it's cold as balls, for one, and the wind blowing powdery snow all over the place doesn't make it any better. At least I have about seven cloaks piled on over the uniform. No matter how much the elves laugh at my "overreaction" to cold, I'm at least prepared. The rest of them can turn into popsicles for all I care.

As soon as I step outside, I regret it. Gales of wind smack me in the face, as does a cluster of snow from Ettrian. Sindo presses against my side, a low whine emanating from his throat. I scratch the top of his head and then plunder through the snow towards the dark-haired ellon who is, currently, laughing far more than he should be.

"Aren't we supposed to be training?" The growl in my voice is evident - grouchy Leoma hates doing exercises in forty below weather - and Ettrian sobers. "We should. I know. I was just having a bit of fun."

He glances down at the dog, raises his eyebrows as if seeing him here is a surprise, and folds his arms over his chest. "So you're still entertaining the idea that you can train him for battle?"

"He _is_ a guard dog," I argue. "Daerdes said it's not uncommon to have a dog watching your back. They're a lot more loyal than people." And also Legolas threatened me that if I have to keep a dog in the dorms, it had better be useful. So here we are.

We walk through the somewhat-cleared path towards the training fields, which is mostly icy and frozen solid, certainly something to hinder training. My light-footed companions don't really seem to think it's a problem; I've already slipped and busted my ass three or four times. _We're preparing you for real battle_ , Curunir cautions. _Unfavorable conditions or not_. As if I'll ever be fighting in ice. As if I'll ever be _fighting_.

But they're right. It doesn't hurt to be on the safe side. That's the whole reason I'm here in the first place - to resume training Sindo into becoming an attack dog. I've already been told many times he's not up to it - he's the right breed for battle - he's just a guard dog that looks and sounds scarier than he actually is.

I, however, have faith in the heavy-set pup that is now trying to gobble snow and wondering why it's melting in his mouth.

Curunir, my faithful teacher who has been elected to help me cultivate Sindo, trudges across the field towards Ettrian and I. He glances at the ellon beside me, jerks his thumb towards the dueling rings, and says, "Scram." Ettrian scrams. Curunir prefers a buffer field around us in case our training goes horribly awry.

It hasn't yet; I just chalk it up to the guy being paranoid.

Kneeling beside Sindo to loosen his collar, I grin up at Curunir. "Beautiful weather, isn't it?"

"Ha, ha, Leoma. I've heard that at least seven times today." As I stand, he hands me the practice sword - a wooden stick crudely fashioned to look like a blade - and the wide, heavy metal shield covered in leather. That part's for the only trick Sindo could currently do - for me to cover my side with the shield, creating a platform for Sindo to launch himself at enemies with ( nothing scarier than a flying dog big enough to hunt bears ).

It's a little less impressive when Curunir has to throw a ball to give Sindo the initiative to actually use the shield as a launching pad. We hope to condition him to automatically jump when I covered my shoulder; so far it hasn't really worked.

Glorified fetch. It's fun, sure, but we're losing valuable time that could be used to actually improve our own skills. Instead Curunir's stuck with me, chasing down a lanky, fifty-pound puppy that is willing to risk anything for its toy. Whoopee!

But come on, Curunir loves it. Everyone loves Sindo! Except when he's eating shoes. Or blankets. Or your leg.

"Stance?" Curunir motions towards the ground. We haven't even simulated real fighting yet, or a duel, with Sindo as an attack dog. . . he still needs to learn the basics. And as a puppy, his one-track mind focuses more on the ball and the fun elf people throwing it rather than training.

I nod, strapping the shield to my arm. For the first few weeks I've worn it, it's dragged my arm down and left me feeling like my bone has shattered. Now that I've gotten used to it, I can actually lift my arm over my head for extended periods of time. ( Even if it still leaves me feeling like I need an amputation. )

Whistling towards Sindo - who has been bounding through snow piled around the edges of the training field - I drop to my knees, positioning the shield at a low angle. I can't see Sindo barreling towards me, but I can hear his paws slamming against the shield, pushing me into the ice, and then leaping off with a scrape of claws against leather. I turn just in time to see him rolling on the ground, his mouth gaping, and then turn towards Curunir, my eyes wide. "Did you see that? Did you? He did it! Did you even throw the ball? See? I told you he could do it! Nobody believes me and, ha, ha, I'm _right_."

Curunir shares a small smile, tossing the ball in Sindo's direction as a reward. He helps me up and we watch the long-legged dog race around the training field, slipping on the ice. "I knew it would only be a matter of time before he learned. Don't take all the credit, Leoma."

I push him. His feet slide out from under him and he lands in a cloud of forest-green wool, looking not unlike a very irritated pile of laundry. "I don't know why I help you. Insolent human."

He takes my forearm nonetheless as I extend it to help him up. "So, what do you say? Another round? Or do you want to abandon me to my efforts?"

He shakes his head, tying back his silky blonde hair in a topknot. "Please. I'm stuck with you now. How many rounds can you take?"

* * *

For the record, Curunir works me to the bone that day. Quite literally, since by the time I walk into the dining hall that evening, my hand has been bandaged and rebandaged several times due to the bruises and wounds received from trying to block his sword.

This arc, however, does not focus on my busted knuckles. Rather, it tells of two pesky elves severely overestimating the heroine - yours truly, in case you happened to be confused - and a demented little creature tucked away in the basement.

You see, now that I'm a fully-fledged member of the guard, I find myself privy to more secrets than I necessarily _want_ to be privy to. That's how I found myself in the drafty dungeons in the dead of winter, huddling beside Legolas, and staring into the depths of a cell.

"And that is. . . ?" I venture to say, my eyes flicking from the being cowering within to Legolas. His eyes are trained on the creature, but it's not a threatening gaze. Something more like. . . what was that, pity? Guilt? Whatever it is, he isn't answering me, and I clear my throat loudly, causing the creature to jump and mutter hoarsely beneath its breath.

That startles me, since I didn't figure it is capable of speech. It barely looks _human_ , with its mottled gray skin and bony limbs, but as it turns its sunken face to me, I see that whatever it is. . . those eyes had once been human.

Legolas finally deigns to look at me and then lets out a dry, humorless chuckle, perhaps at my ignorance. I take offense to that, since he really should be used to it by now. "That is. . . a creature we were entrusted to care for. His name is Gollum." With a pause, he corrects his statement. "We _think_ his name is Gollum. He doesn't say much else."

"Oh." I tilt my head, crouching before the bars of the cell. "You call _this_ caring for him? The guy has a loincloth. Is his skin blue naturally, or is he freezing to death?"

Legolas puts a hand on my shoulder, subtly pulling me away from the cell. "He's. . . dangerous. In all the time we have looked after him, he's shown to be unstable. He arrived only shortly before you - " He pins me with a look, and I throw up my hands in a _truce_ gesture; we'd established long ago that I'm far from unstable or even evil. " - I think the entire story would be hard for you to understand. He was involved in dark matters. Mithrandir trusted us to keep him out of trouble."

"Oh." I watch Gollum hop around the cell and slap the wet stone with his long fingers, a hacking cough rising in his throat. "That's. . . cool. Why am I here?"

There's silence. I realize Legolas is lost in staring at the creature again, and nudge him with my shoulder. "You seem to find him fascinating."

"From what I know of his past, he is. . . a specimen that should have died long ago." Legolas doesn't elaborate. He only shrugs, a simple lift and drop of his shoulders, and turns away. After a few moments, I follow his example. "The reason I have brought you here is simple. Your duty will be to care for him. Do not look at me like that," he warns after catching my dumbfounded expression. "This is a shared duty. He is a simple creature; he is fed on fish and water. When spring comes, we let him into the trees under close watch. He isn't as unpleasant as he looks."

I feel like Legolas is lying to me, but it isn't as if I can refuse. Forcing myself to act formal - despite his repeated assurance that he hates it when we act like that - I bow. "Your wish is my command."

"You never sound sincere when you say that." A smile quirks at the edge of his lips and I laugh, though immediately stop when the sound bounces off the roughly hewn walls and echoes hauntingly down the corridor. "Can you not complain about me for once in your life?" I tease, wrapping my cloak tighter around me as a particularly strong draft blows through the dungeons. Legolas notes my shiver and leads me towards the stairs. "Never. I have existed for two thousand years and have only felt disappointment."

"You suck."

"Begging your pardon?" He laughs at me, and I quickly realize that he isn't half as used to my literal translations of English slang into Sindarin. Waving him away, I jog to the top of the stone steps and call down, "You'll never understand me! I'm a plague."

"A plague with horrible grammar." He reaches my side and, once we're out of the dungeons, locks the heavy door behind him. The humorous atmosphere melts with his sigh, and he lays a slim hand on the surface of the door. "Every time I see him, I get a foreboding feeling."

"Oh, that's good news." I rub my arms, trying to regain feeling in my limbs. "So you're going to put me on goblin duty now."

"Yes." He manages a cheeky smile. "Then we can be rid of the both of you."

Ah, now he's been hanging around Ettrian too much. His comment of, "I'll only be turning you loose in the spring, though. For now, feeding him will do," doesn't really help my mood, and I gripe all the way back to the common rooms.

There's something warm about a room full of tall, green-clad immortals now. It isn't the roaring fire in the hearth, but the quiet tones of laughter and hellos that waft by my ears, directed towards both Legolas and I. It lifts the cold from my bones as much as the heat from the blaze in the fireplace, and I immediately make a beeline towards Sindo, who is stretched out on the floor in front of the fire, his belly turned towards the flames.

I collapse on the ground next to him, and he wriggles sleepily, tail thumping against the ground in a hello. "Hey, boy," I murmur in English, scratching his warm, fluffy tummy. "What did you do today, buddy? Eat a lot of snacks? Get some scratchins?"

He licks my chin. I settle for closing my eyes, breathing in the warm, comfortable scent of his fur. Smoke and clean laundry, which means somebody's clothes are probably covered in dog fur.

The lull of voices in the background make my eyes droop, and in the comfort of what felt like home, I fall asleep.

My days pass similarly - training with Sindo and Curunir in the morning, then caring for the horses and basking in the temporary warmth of the stable; my afternoons are spent lugging fish into the dungeons and sitting there watching Gollum devour salmon. He never talks to me, but sometimes I speak to him; a joking "the usual?" as I drop the fish into his cell, or a bored "how has your day been?" as I watch him eat lest he choke on a fish bone. The most I get out of him is a raspy " _gollum_ " or, once, "the ugly girl should rip out her tongues!", which quickly makes me leave the immediate area.

For a long time, everything is quiet, and warm, and happy. Winter passes, longer days giving into melting snow and Sindo's shedding fur, softening into a warm spring. Flowers bloom and new growth bursts from the forest. Gollum tugs on the rope around his neck for weeks before he gets used to my hand when the time comes to let him into the sun. I work, fight - wonder if these days will pass and I can go back home, wonder if this _i_ _s_ home.

But all things must come to an end, and the spring where Ettrian barely plays a part in my life turns into a summer where I wish I could take everything back.

* * *

 **This is a short update, but it's been a month and I'm itching to get back in a regular writing phase. I did some time skips that could have easily been avoided if I just focused more, but that would probably leave another month before I got this chapter up, so here we are. Also, this chapter contains little Ettrian and more Legolas and Leoma, since their friendship will play a bigger part in the future and I wanted to show how their relationship has developed now: not a close friendship, but more like a teasing companionship.**

 **As always, a deep thanks to anyone who read, reviewed, followed, and favorited! Your feedback and constructive criticism always make me smile, so please tell me if you liked the chapter and/or how I can improve. Thank you!**


	10. I Thought This Only Happens In K-Dramas

I wake up to Sindo's cold, wet nose against my ear. He's still spoiled enough to sleep in my bed, despite having tripled in size since the winter. "Mmph," I groan, pushing his snout away and trying to roll over. It doesn't work, since he has me squished against the wall. Blinking open my crusted eyes, I realize that the sky is just barely lit enough to silhouette the trees, and my room is empty.

It still troubles me to wake up alone, but I've recently moved into a smaller room, one that I no longer share with Lariel. We only shared so that she could ensure that I assimilate properly, and also because I'd been scared out of my wits the first few months.

At least my room has a nice breeze, which helps during the hot early summer months, and definitely helps with the furnace next to me doesn't feel like moving in the morning.

I sit up, scratching Sindo's butt and laughing as he wiggles until he nearly falls off the bed. "You ready to go, buddy? You ready? Want to run today?" He doesn't recognize much, but Curunir insists on teaching him commands and getting him used to language, and _run_ is one of his favorite words. By the time I've tugged on my tunic, pants and boots, he's been clawing at the door for several minutes.

"Let's go." I open the door, whistling to call him back when he bounds into the hall. He isn't full grown yet, Curunir says - just a large puppy - and even if he is progressing in training well, he still gets a little overexcited. And I can't afford him running over some poor elf on his way to get morning tea.

I don't need to leash Sindo anymore, because once I get him focused, he stays at my heel, keeping his pace even with mine. I can tell that he wanted to stretch his legs and shake loose the previous night's aches and pains, so I quicken my step, but halt altogether too soon when I reach the training field and see Ettrian.

Trust me, I haven't been avoiding him. ( That's a lie. ) We don't speak whenever we are on sentinel duty or caring for Gollum; that's his fault for not trying to address the tension between us. ( That is also a lie. ) It hasn't really been a sudden thing - but since winter, since the one time he'd grazed my hand when talking to me, I've started to drift away, confused by my own feelings towards him and thinking it's easier to just not talk to him instead of bringing up _why_ I feel the way I do.

Man, and I thought my crush on Hot Steve is crazy. Trying to come to terms with the way my heart hammers in my chest whenever I look at Ettrian. . . who is a thousand shades of unattainable. . . wow, yeah, it's a lot easier just ignoring him.

Sindo doesn't feel the same way. He sees Ettrian at the same time I do, and bounds towards him, balancing on his hind legs to place his paws on Ettrian's muscled chest and lick his chiseled face. "Sindo!" I call, desperate to leave as quickly as possible. "Down, boy! Down! What did we say about manners?"

Sindo doesn't listen, probably because Ettrian is scratching him behind the ears and saying something in Sindarin baby-talk. So much for being a cat person.

By the time he looks past Sindo's furry head to me, I've already attempted to hide my face, but I don't miss the expression that crossed Ettrian's, something indeterminable that makes me feel all tingly and. . . guilty.

He lowers Sindo to the ground and crosses to me, leaving my dog to peruse the training field for sniffs, and I silently beg for someone to help. No one does. Ettrian walks towards me, and says, for the first time in weeks, something more than a hello.

"You look scared."

"Do I?" Who allows him to look like that? I miss the days where I hated his face and every stupid thing that came out of his mouth.

"You do." He smiles at me, but it's a forced smile. "Let me guess. . . is it, perhaps, because you keep failing to ignore my presence?"

His use of formal speech sounds condescending to the outside listener, but it reminds me of the days when we could tease each other without one of us collapsing in a pile of sappy, lovey-dovey mess.

I brush my hair out of my eyes. "Hooray, you caught me. You don't win any prizes today, though."

"I don't?" He feigns disappointment. "Ah, well. Your company will have to do."

"No," I say all too quickly, and it's like every emotion drops from Ettrian's face at once. Squeezing my fingers in a weak attempt to bring some feeling back into my limbs, I try to correct myself. "Not. . . now. I have to. . . train with Sindo."

Ettrian glances behind him to the gray dog, who has completely forgotten about me and is now terrorizing the elves clustered near the water well. . . actually, it looks a lot more like fetch rather than terrorizing. "And I suppose I have to believe that?"

 _When did things get so awkward_?

I can't answer that, since I can't even remember. How long has it been since I've even looked him in the eyes?

He's staring at me, and I realized I haven't even answered him yet. ". . . Yeah. No. I mean, yes. I'm busy." Very busy, trying desperately to look for some form of escape. Then a forest-green clad guard passes by, the angry marks on his shoulder a testament to his duty: dealing with Gollum. ( Surprise! He doesn't bite if you're halfway decent to him. I've made it a month without him trying to eat my fingers. )

And I quickly rectify my statement. "But. . . maybe later? I hear the woods are nice this time of year."

Ettrian's eyes glitter in amusement. I wonder how stupid I sound to him. Come on, isolating yourself in a forest with your love interest? In every novel I've ever read, it either ends up with no clothes, a couple's fight, or an ambush. Or all three.

"Later it is, then. Come find me, alright?" He reaches out, his slim fingers squeezing my clammy hand, and leaves. My hand trembles even as he disappears from sight, and quickly - and shakily - I whistle for Sindo.

But given what the forest has in store for us, I would have taken being estranged from my best friend for the rest of my life than taking him into those woods.

* * *

"Are you _preening_?" Lariel asks from where she crouches on the ground, playing tug-of-war with Sindo and a rag that was probably once a part of some poor elf's uniform. My hand drops from my hair, where it's been attempting to re-braid locks of curly hair away from my face. "Why would you think that? Can't I try and look nice every now and then?"

Lariel sends me a look. "I'd say so, but there's a certain ellon approaching that I would say you might want to impress."

My stomach drops, and I turn.

At first, I only see Legolas, and, um, _ew_ \- but Ettrian is beside him. I bow first to our prince and then, confused and hazy, again to Ettrian - who stares at me with one eyebrow arched close to his hairline when I stand.

Legolas ignores me in favor of Lariel. "You were going out with the trainees this afternoon, were you not?" I eavesdrop in favor of noticing Ettrian. "Yes, we were practicing archery with - " She is drowned out by Ettrian taking my hand and running, fully _running_ , towards the edge of the training field. I stumble, trying to regain my footing, trying to keep in pace with him.

"Wh - what about Sindo?"

"What about him?" We crash through the underbrush, but Ettrian doesn't stop until all the noise of voices and laughter and swords clanging against swords fades from our ears.

"What if something happens?" I dig my heels into the earth, and Ettrian halts, panting. I try not to focus on his lips as they quirk into a smile. "Nothing will, Leoma. Do you not trust the sentinels?"

Of course I do, but. . . it's not that. Some weird feeling is rising in my chest, and I can't tell if it's because of Ettrian's close proximity, or fear.

He lets go of my hand in favor of turning to a crooked tree and hauling himself up on one of the low branches, swinging his legs. "So. Are we going to talk, or will you just stare at me with those eyes and try and escape again?"

"Talk about what?" My voice is definitely several pitches higher. Ettrian shakes his head, a scoff passing his lips. "You're always like this. You can face orcs, but not me?"

 _Steel your nerves, Leo. He's right. It's just him_.

"I like you."

His head snaps to me and I'm half afraid he'll break his neck with the sharp movement. "Are you - ?"

"Yes, I'm serious!" I inhale, exhale, and attempt - in vain - to calm down. "Maybe too serious. I don't know why, I know it's stupid, you're - you're - a thousand years older than I am, but you always make me smile with your dumb jokes and every time you look at me I get this feeling in my stomach and - "

He drops to the ground, his feet barely making a sound despite the fallen leaves covering the forest floor. "As. . . as a lover. You like me?"

"Are you still confused on that?" He's in front of me now, and I wish I had taken a step back, but I can't force myself to.

"Well, I can't say your grammar is _completely_ accurate." He brushes a lock of hair away from my face, one I've failed to pin back. "But I'd like to hear it from your lips one more time. Please?"

"I - " I stop as something moves in the corner of my vision. "What the fuck was that?"

"Did you have to ruin it with a joke?" Ettrian's eyes narrow, and his lips slant downwards. "This is rather a serious moment."

"No, seriously." I duck under his arm. "Something. . . something moved."

As any white girl in a horror movie would do, I move towards the underbrush.

 _Hack. Hack. Hack_.

Something coughs from within, then grumbles, and finally slides into the sunlight, pale eyes blinking up at me. I crouch, taking in Gollum and the torn rope around his throat. "Oh, buddy. What happened to _you_?" Ignoring the possibility of rabies, I held out my hand. "How did you get away? Come on, let's take you back."

Ettrian drops to his knees next to me. "You talk to it as if it's a friend."

"He's not that bad." I wiggle my fingers, wishing I'd had fish, but that isn't really a great first-date accessory. "Come on, Gollum. Come here."

"Nasty, nasty." His chant rises in volume until the demented creature is screaming at me, masking his attempt to inch back towards the underbrush. "Filthy orcses come to save Gollum! Come to bleed the nasty elves and the ugly girl. Come to feast, feast while Gollum escapes!"

 _Creepy_.

I stand at the same time Ettrian does, but I don't draw my weapon, unlike the dark-haired elf beside me. "He's not that bad?" Ettrian tries to joke, but I can tell he is still hung up on the whole _orc_ thing. Has something really made it past the sentinels? What happened to the guards caring for Gollum?

Are we alone in these woods with a crazy goblinoid in front of us and orcs closing in?

It's just like old times, then.

"So what do we do?" I watch Gollum dance around the tree and, when he came face to face with us again, bare his teeth. "Filthy. . . elveses." He mutters to himself. "Filthy elf. . . knife. . . nasty, nasty."

"Let's run," I suggested, and Ettrian glances at me, a smile on his lips. "Count of three? I'll hold him - "

His expression goes slack. It takes me a moment to realize that in the split second he'd looked at me, Gollum has leaped onto his chest and sunk his teeth into his neck.

Ettrian falls backwards, and I, shrieking breathlessly in horror, football kick Gollum into the tree and collapse on my knees next to the bloody elf. "Don't talk," I command as his hand reaches for me and then falls to the ground.

He's so _pale_. The wound doesn't look deep - shallow teeth marks at the junction of his neck and shoulder - but blood is seeping out, slowly and steadily. And if orcs _had_ passed the sentinels. . . I had to get him out of here. There was literally one chance that I could take.

Ripping my sleeve, I try to soak up the blood. "You're going to be alright, Ettrian. Okay? I have to tell you one more time. When you're conscious. And alive. And breathing. And all the good stuff. Don't. . . don't fall asleep." Maybe _I_ neede reassurance to breathe, since my own inhales are shallow and barely make it to my lungs.

One - two - roll him onto his stomach. One - two - haul him onto my back. A step, then another. I glance behind me to make sure nobody is there. Gollum has long since disappeared, hopefully with a broken rib or two.

But as scared as I am, I find myself focusing less on the possibility of threats and more on the elf that is very likely bleeding out on my back. We can't be too far from the keep. . . how far did we run? I recognized that tree. How long have I been walking? It feels like hours. Don't trip on that vine. Did I see a flash of green? Voices. . . those are definitely voices.

Sindo howls, and then keeps barking before he even comes into vision. Daerdes is behind him, shouting in rapid Sindarin. I can't understand it, partly because of the speed of the words and partly because of the blood thrumming in my ears.

I barely register Daerdes speaking to me, helping me forward, or the guards that rush past us into the trees. Sindo whines, sniffing my legs, but I can't look at him; my eyes, focused, too focused, not focused at all, on the ground in front of me. Where were we? This was the infirmary. God, how far had we walked?

Ruith eases Ettrian off of my back and everything falls into place. I try to get enough air in my lungs. "Please, no, I have to - will he be alright?"

The door shuts in my face. I collapse on the ground and cried, leaning into Daerdes's side as she rubs my back in an attempt to comfort me, an attempt that doesn't work.

* * *

I force myself to listen to Legolas as the guards are gathered in the hall. A brief on the situation, one that I've pieced together and don't want to hear about again. Orcs made it past the sentinels in a rescue mission, Legolas explains, trying to gain Gollum's intelligence for their master. Gollum escaped in the confusion. The orcs were killed, but Gollum remains missing; there are no fatal wounds except one, he says, and though he doesn't elaborate, I feel too many eyes on me.

 _It's not my fault, I didn't hurt him_ , I want to tell those harsh eyes. But what could have happened if I'd just stayed put? If I didn't go with him into the woods? He wouldn't be dying under Ruith's hands. _Dying_.

Afterwards, the guards disperse, and I collapse in a pile of hay in the stables. It's a long time before anyone finds me, though I wish it'd been longer, and I wish it'd been anyone except Legolas.

He crouches in front of me, not saying anything until I manage a throaty, wet, " _What_?"

"I do not blame you for this." His voice is soft. "Nobody does, Leoma."

"Tell that to his friends." My shoulders shake as I try to force down a sob. "I saw how they looked at me. He wouldn't be hurt if I was just. . . "

"You did what you could." Legolas's voice becomes stern, and he lifts my chin, forcing my tear-filled and angry eyes to look into his own. "The fault is not your own. He will heal. And you. . . "

He pauses for too long. I sigh, ducking my chin again. "And I what?"

Legolas also exhales, one so soft he probably thinks I don't hear. "Gollum remains missing. We will hunt for him as long as we can, but if too long passes, I must bring this to the attention of Elrond Peredhel."

I vaguely recognize the name, but don't question it. I'm not in the mood to be curious. "Okay. What does that have to do with me?"

"My father thinks it. . ." Legolas pauses. "In our best interest that, if it comes to that, you should join me."

"What, so we can get attacked and I get you hurt too?" I turn away, and Legolas throws a piece of hay at me. It lands in my hair, just above my eyes, and it's a blatant attempt to make me smile.

It doesn't work. I only stare at him balefully. "Are you serious?"

"When I said that nobody blames you. . . " Legolas sits back, folding his legs under him and meeting my cold gaze. "I may have lied. It is rare that elves get hurt in such an attack. . . many think that had you not been there, he might have. . . "

"I know!" The tears are streaming again. "I know. You don't have to - shut up. Just shut up."

I forget, in the moment, that he is my prince, but remember it two seconds later, and try to dry my tears. "I'm. . . I'm sorry, Legolas."

"Do not apologize. That's a command." He lifts himself into the hay next to me, and I'm reminded of my mom, and though Legolas is a two-thousand-year-old elf, not an ethnically ambiguous ex-military captain, he has the same comforting feeling. Like he expects nothing in return. He's just here.

"When that time comes. . . " I touch the knot in my throat. "I'll go with you."

Legolas glances at me, and I just barely see the smile touching his lips in the corner of my eye. "Good. . . because that's a command, too."

* * *

 **What? I updated two days in a _row_? This is madness. This chapter is also a little bit longer. . . like three hundred words longer, I know, so impressive. **

**Let me know in the comments if you cried, because I did. I could have made it more dramatic, but honestly, like I said in the last chapter, I just want to finish the pre-War of the Ring exposition and get into the juicy stuff. Is that a valid reason to kill off Ettrian? Why, sure!**

 **As always, thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and favorited! Your reviews always make me smile, like, seriously. I woke up this morning and saw two new reviews and, wow, my heart. Thank you!**


	11. In Which I Can't Forget

**Dear old readers: firstly, thank you very much for sticking with Alcartur. Every read, review, follow and favorite makes me smile - I can't express how much it means that people are enjoying my work; Alcartur originally started as just something to write in my free time. I've picked it up again for you guys. Thank you for that.**

 **You'll notice some changes in this chapter and the ones that follow; actually, it's just one change, and it's the switch from past to present tense. I apologize if you prefer my old style, but it's - and I'll be honest here - _really_ difficult for me to keep writing like that. In order to continue Alcartur, I've switched into a style I'm more comfortable with. I've updated old chapters as well! Give them a reread if you want, or continue if you feel comfortable with the change. **

**Thank you all!**

* * *

He isn't dead, but sometimes I think that it might have been better if he is. He isn't dead, but for all of a month, all I hear of him is that he sleeps, fitfully, and that everyone thinks he may never wake up again. And if he did, he might not be the same.

I have no medical background, but I have no reason to doubt the whispers or the people who said them. But instead of sticking around to hear the rumors of him, the rumors of him and me, I opt instead to join the hunts for Gollum. We comb the forest, north to south, east to west; over and over again. For thirty-one days all I know is stewed rabbit, thin saddles and hushed voices.

Then Legolas declares that Gollum has escaped our clutches, and he will have to notify Elrond Peredhel and Mithrandir. I tell myself that I'll be ready, but the news hits me like a bowling ball to the stomach, and when Legolas corners me in the hall to tell me to be ready to leave in two days, I stare at him with a gaping mouth. "There's. . . there's still so much to do."

"Then do it." His voice is understanding, but stressed. I knew he doesn't want to leave as well, but unlike me, he understands that it's necessary. Curse elves being all worldly and wise.

I curl my fingers into my palm until my nails dig into the skin. "We'll come back, right?"

"Of course we will." Legolas bestows me with a gentle smile. "Unless. . . " He trails off, then picks up the sentence again. "The Peredhel may be able to help you."

I jerk to attention. " _What_?"

He's already walking away, and I stare after him in shock. "You can't just say something like that and leave!"

Legolas calls over his shoulder, "Whatever motivates you, Leoma."

I hate it when he's right.

The walk back to my room is slow. I don't have much to pack besides a few spare tunics, since there isn't much that is that special to me. As an afterthought, I stuff the wooden hairpin into the small bag as well. How long ago has that party been? Almost a year. I haven't touched the flower comb since, but it stings to think of leaving it. Especially if I would never come back.

Sindo whines from the bed, and I scratch his head. "Don't worry, boy. I'm not leaving you." He doesn't understand me, but he likes my soft tone and pushes his snout into my hand for more scratchins. I oblige, basking in the comfort of the small room that I will leave all too soon. Maybe that's the reason I don't leave my room again that day; I want to stay one last time, sit and think and sleep, with only Sindo for company.

But I'm not good at being pensive. I'm out again early the next morning, and I have a mission.

The infirmary is the same - same smell, same sheets, same grumpy Ruith. The only thing different is Ettrian, and I wish, as I stand there staring at him, that it could be me in that bed instead of him.

"He is healing." I turn my head to Ruith, who'd spoken. She pats my arm, not comfortingly, but what passes as companionably. "He _is_ healing. Slowly, but he will wake. Whether you are there to see it. . . "

"Will he be. . . Ettrian?" I ask, my voice quiet, as if I'm afraid the air will shatter.

Ruith only shrugs.

Slowly, I approach the bedside and bend to kiss Ettrian's forehead. His skin is clammy, and his damp hair sticks to his head. His lips are pale, but I believe that they _will_ smile again. Maybe not at me, but I don't care. He has to. "There's so much to say," I whisper to him. "But I don't think I can."

He doesn't reply. I probably would've been more freaked out if he did. But seeing him is enough, and with another kiss, this time to his cheek, I say all I can. I'm sorry. Thank you for everything. Goodbye.

Because Elrond Peredhel is a new hope to me.

And maybe. . . if I don't come back, if I find my way home. . . this is the last I'd see of him, of everyone, and I hope that he can hear all I've said. Even if he isn't conscious, even if his mind is far away from me.

I leave the infirmary all too quickly; I can't stand Ruith's gaze on me as I try to hide my tears.

Despite my haze of confusion and sadness and guilt, the Greenwood doesn't look any different. Nobody pays me a second glance; nobody says much beyond hello. It's like nothing has changed, but far too much has for me to recognize it.

After Ettrian, everything is silent. I sit in the stables for what I think to myself is the last time and say goodbye to the horses that had once been my first comfort here. They don't react; they don't understand. I still murmur my thanks to each one.

"Leoma, are you hiding here again?"

That voice is Curunir's. My hand leaves Edgar's muzzle and I realize that Curunir is holding something. "I've been looking all over for you," he says. "We are not friends, but. . . I will miss training with you."

"You don't have to lie to me," I joke, crossing the hay-covered floor to him.

"I'm not." He smiles, hard to see in the shade but visible. "You were my easiest student."

"I would say toughest. You were always yelling at me." That's definitely one thing I won't miss. Pointing to the sheath in his hands, I ask stupidly, since it's really very obvious what he's carrying, "What's that?"

He glances at it, and then at me. "Ah. . . it is a sword. For you. Do you need your eyes checked, Leoma?"

"All sense has abandoned me." I murmur dryly, and Curunir doesn't laugh at the joke. He places the sheath in my hands. The sword is light - short, and light, with a curved handle and a strap to fit over my back. "This sword is yours. You haven't practiced much with a real blade, but should you not return, I wanted you to have this."

"Oh." I run my hand along the engravings in the sheath. "You heard, then?"

"That our human may find her way back home." Curunir smiles at me and claps me on the back. "Come, now. The others are waiting."

"I can't believe they sent _you_ on Find the Leoma duty." My heart tingles when he says _the others_. God, I will miss them. So much. My head thrums, screaming at me not to leave. I ignore it. Home is distant to me, but far more important.

"It is because I'm not as soft." Curunir puffs out his chest and I laugh, knowing very well that compared to his sister, he is definitely the softest of the bunch. "You're nuts. Let's go."

And we do.

It's small, but it's light - and it's family. Lariel, Galadhon, Daerdes, Curunir. Drinking, laughing, throwing food at each other when one makes a bad joke. Knowing that this could be the last time all of us are together. I keep my tears in. But Daerdes pulls me aside at the end of the night, telling me everything she thinks I need to hear. _Be safe. Live long. See your home again. Guard your left._ That's when my tears spill over. I can't bring myself to say my goodbyes, but we all feel them.

And I'm gone by the time the sun rises the next morning.

* * *

"I've never been this far before."

I don't mean for Legolas to hear, but his elfy ears pick it up anyway. He pulls his horse, Galroch, alongside Daelorgaer. "You have never seen the mountains?"

We're traveling along the edge of the forest and have been for a few hours, making our way towards what Legolas says was a pass in the north. I shale my head. "I have, but only through the trees."

Despite it only being late summer, snow blankets the rocky peaks, and I feel a chill in the warm breeze. Lifting one hand to rub my bicep, I glance around for Sindo. He's stayed by my side for most of the ride, his long legs able to keep up with a slow trot - now that we are traveling through long grass, I see his waving tail several feet away, and whistle for him to come back.

We are silent again. It's painful. Sindo tries to chase a rabbit, which leads in me having to venture off the trail to round him back up again; Legolas warns me not to leave his side. Things are dangerous out here. That doesn't make me focus any more than before. But the trees slowly disappear behind us and we turn towards the mountains, picking up a swift pace.

Imladris. I wonder what it looks like. Nobody really ever talked about it; I wonder if it's a city in the forest like the Greenwood, on the ground or built up through the trees like I've heard another Elven haven, Lothlorien, looks like. In my mind it's like a crystal palace, or maybe marble; something beautiful and breathtaking but warm.

"Have you been there before?"

My voice surprises me; I don't mean to speak, don't mean to say it out loud. It's hoarse, quiet, but earnest; I _do_ want something to fill the silence, and this is as hard as I can try.

Legolas glances at me; he slows his horse until I'm beside him. I don't like the way he looks, but eventually his expression shifts into a neutral tone and he answers. Equally quiet. I don't want him to sound so somber, but it's not like I can tell him to shut up.

"Yes. Many times."

I wait for him to elaborate as I stare at the mountains. We're getting close, so close that I can pick out ridges and cliffs etched into the rock face. It's almost more interesting than listening to Legolas.

"It's hidden," he continues; his voice is like he's telling a story. I try to imagine myself there. It's better than nothing. "In a valley, surrounded by the greenest trees. Every day you wake and are lulled to sleep by the thunder of waterfalls near your ear. White stone gleams in the sunlight when you walk; the people there are silent and kind. It's a different world." I realize he's looking at me again, and I don't meet his eyes. "From Eryn Lasgalen. Are you scared of it?"

I lick my lips as I try to think of something to say. Not scared; I've known fear and it doesn't feel like the feeling at the pit of my stomach, as if I haven't eaten anything in so long that I've transcended hunger and just exist with my body cavity filled with stomach acid. What is that - anxiety? Nerves? Or maybe a different kind of fear, a slow fear, not the adrenaline rush that overtakes you when you're staring an orc in the face.

"Can't tell," I say finally. "Will they. . . be nice to me? Or should I expect a city full of Daelens?"

Legolas suppresses laughter. He doesn't make a sound, but I can see his lips twitching. Daelen is his right-hand man. He knows that we despise each other. For some reason, it cracks him up; I let it. I've long since stopped hating Daelen because he's an asswipe - now I hate him just to hate him.

"Noldor and Sindar elves are more mild-mannered than their Silvan cousins." I don't know what he's talking about, but I nod as if I do. "And you know _Peredhel_ means half-elven. They will not hate you, Leoma."

I hope that he's right. I don't want to experience Eryn Lasgalen again.

He keeps talking, and I think it's because he hates the silence as much as I do; he's filling the gap. I listen; he's telling me of people there, of his friends, of Elladan and Elrohir - who I'm none too glad to see - and of how happy he thinks I'll be when I'm among them. He forgets that that's not why I'm going. I don't want to stay. I just want to see if Elrond can help me.

But I can't tell him that. He knows, but I've seen it, heard it in every goodbye. More people than I want to realize don't want me to leave.

It makes it harder, so I try not to think about it.

Unfortunately, it sticks with me. As I curl around Sindo that night when we camp, I try and define home. It hurts when I realize that it has two meanings. Earth, and the Greenwood.

When dawn breaks the next morning, I think about what I miss. Mom. Wyatt. The twins. Pizza. _Wheel of Fortune_. Lariel. Daerdes and Curunir. Galadhon. Ettrian.

What does it mean? I ask myself, and I know the answer long before we ride into Imladris.

* * *

"Wow, the trees _are_ really green." I squint at the forest around us as our horses pick our way into the valley. Legolas, ahead of me, chuckles to himself. "Do you not believe me, Leoma? You'd think you would learn."

Sindo runs through the brush. I call him back and say, "Okay, but it's _Narbeleth_. Let me guess - magic?" I translate Narbeleth as the Sindarin month for the sun-fading; in other words, October.

"Elves," is his answer, and I hate remembering that Elves are hailed as children of gods. Or something. It's really unfair.

"Nice," I mutter to myself and duck my head as we pass under a low-hanging limb. As we continue deeper into the valley, I get the feeling that we're being watched, and I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. Elves don't have X-ray vision, but they might as well.

It turns out I'm right when a blonde steps in front of Legolas's horse. He barks in Sindarin, and I'm surprised that I understand it. Something about the place makes me feel foreign - or maybe it's just because this is the first Elven haven I've stepped foot in outside of the Greenwood.

"Halt!" He says, and Legolas, very smoothly, replies, "We have halted, Arandur."

Arandur, who is dressed in a very smart and very shiny suit of armor, grins - from what I can see. I have to peer over Legolas's shoulder, three feet away. Anyway, I _think_ he's grinning, and he says, "Not many come this path. Do you wish for me to bore myself to tears sitting alone in a tree?"

Legolas shakes his head. I can definitely see that, since his golden braids dance and catch the sunlight. I hate it when he's ethereal.

The guard looks past the prince to me, who is doing a very good job at blending into the forest with my uniform and skinny dark features, and says, "Your guard?"

"Yes. And her dog." Sindo, sitting patiently beside Daelorgaer, barks. He likes the word _dog_.

Arandur points down the path with a closed fist. "Very well. Welcome to Imladris, my friend. Elrond Peredhel awaits you."

He doesn't say anything about my being human, or me in general. That makes me smile at him as I ride past, and he even ducks his head. In _respect_. Respect. I wedge Daelorgaer in between Legolas's mount and the edge of the trees to hiss, "He was so polite!"

"Sindar elves generally tend to be." There's a smile playing on his lips, but he keeps his eyes on the path ahead. "Look now, Leoma - we are here."

Any thought of Arandur leaves my mind as the trees break and we ride across a white stone bridge into the Last Homely House. Legolas isn't wrong; there _are_ a lot of waterfalls, coming down from all sides of the valley and flowing through the city that's built up against a cliff. It's reminiscent of Eryn Lasgalen in its twisting towers and arches with intertwining branches, but it's bright and reflects the sunlight, more welcoming than Eryn Lasgalen could ever be. It's not meant to intimidate, but beckon.

And damn, it works.

We dismount in a courtyard beyond the bridge and I grip Daelorgaer's reins tight as Elves flood towards us to great Legolas. A few take our horses, leaving me to stand awkwardly in the background, one hand on Sindo's head to keep him from going nuts around all the new people.

" _Leoma_!"

There's a shout and I cringe. I'd been hoping the twin sons of Elrond would forget me, but as they come bounding in my direction, I realize that there's no such luck.

Elrohir - or maybe Elladan - grips my forearm in a handshake. The bro kind. We're not friends, but I go along with it anyway. "We were not expecting you," he says in a hushed voice, but his eyes twinkle. That probably means he's brewing an evil plan. "But we are glad to see you in the company of the illustrious prince, aren't we? It seems like decades since we have last seen each other."

Rather, it's been almost exactly a year - and I could've gone with it being longer.

Elladan - it's probably Elrohir - pushes his brother out of the way. "Tell us the news, Leoma. Is this your dog? How did you convince Lasgalen to let you visit us? How is our Ettrian?"

I choke on air. Legolas comes to my rescue too late, clapping Elladan ( Elrohir? ) on the shoulder. "Let her alone, my friend. She doesn't want to be bombarded with you two this early in the day."

This early? It's two in the afternoon, but I send Legolas a grateful smile anyway. Elrohir - Elladan - no, it's definitely Elrohir; he has two marks on his right eyelid - reads my expression. Immediately his voice drops two tones and he looks towards Legolas. "Be honest with us. What happened?"

Legolas opens his mouth. I break through the circle of elves; I can't hear what he's going to say. Or, more accurately, I don't want to. Sindo follows, and when I find my way to a garden and sit down - hard - on the nearest bench, he pushes his nose into my hand.

I scratch him idly. "It's okay, boy. I'm okay."

Either he doesn't believe me, or he just wants more scratchins, because he jumps into my lap - this enormous attack dog who thinks he's still a puppy - and covers my cheek with a kiss. I wrap my arms around him. He's more reliable than any elf can ever be.

But thinking about that doesn't help matters. I bury my face in his fur and listen to his loud heartbeat. He doesn't wriggle, and instead rests his furry chin on my shoulder. Only a few whines and then silence. Have I mentioned I love my dog?

We stay there until darkness falls. I'm aware of other people in the garden, but either they don't notice me or graciously avoid me. When someone does finally approach me, I wish I could say I'm rudely interrupted - but someone's feet crunches against gravel and I look up as a woman asks, "Are you well?"

She's silhouetted against the pale moonlight and I'm half convinced that she's not real. But she sits beside me and sends me a sympathetic smile. "Not many choose to miss the evening meal unless there's something on their mind." Sindo sniffs at her; she rubs his chin. I'm still staring. If she notices, she doesn't let on.

"My name is Arwen," she introduces. "Which delegation are you with?"

It takes me a minute to close my gaping mouth and then open it again when I speak. "I, um - it's, uh, the Greenwood. I came with L - Prince Legolas."

The lady - Arwen - studies me. Despite the darkness, her blue eyes gleam with kindness and some otherworldly aspect that I can't put my finger on. "A human in the company of Legolas?" She laughs lightly. I'm not jealous of how extraordinarily beautiful she is and how it seems to grow with each passing moment; all I'm feeling is a little bit gay for her. "I'll have to tease him for that. He once swore that such a thing would never happen in his lifetime."

"Yeah, uh, he's changed." I brush back my hair. She's not referring to my human-ness (?) with disgust or even apprehension; she makes me feel like we're on the same level of existence, even if she's an elf. That's a new feeling - a really nice one. "He's the one that forced me to come along."

Arwen laughs again, a tinkling sound that reminds me of Lariel - it's the same warm and friendly tone, even if Lariel's is deeper and richer. Arwen laughs delicately, but still like she's known me for a thousand years. "You use Sindarin in a strange way." She touches my hand, but doesn't correct my grammar. "How long have you learned it?"

"A - a year." I'm rather in shock that she deigned to touch me. Sindo immediately licks the feeling away, and I have to scrub through his fur to distract myself. "Maybe a little more."

"Fluent for a new speaker." Arwen eyes me with praise. I start to get the feeling that she's acting so kind because I'm an outsider; because I'm a strange person in a strange place. Not that she's charming me, but that she's doing all she can to make me feel more comfortable. What a stellar lady. I'd nominate for her for Time Magazine's Person of the Century.

Arwen speaks again, and this time she changes the subject. "If you came from Eryn Lasgalen, you must be tired from the long ride. It hurts me to see you sitting alone in the cold." She stands, extending her hand. "Please, come with me - we can't have a friend of Prince Legolas freezing." I don't mean to accept her invitation, but Sindo slides off my lap and I stand.

She's convincing, but it probably helps that I'm also beginning to get cold and hungry. There's only so long I can cry into Sindo's shoulder, and I've told myself time and time again that Ettrian is behind me.

I know that's wrong, but I still follow her along the halls gleaming in the moonlight and pick up on her light attempts at conversation. I don't say much, but Arwen makes up for that; she stops speaking idly when she stops beside a door and opens it for me. "A room for you. Rest now." She looks from the room to me and smiles. "The journey is hard, but you cannot finish it if you do not take care of yourself."

I get the feeling she's not talking about the trip from the Greenwood to Imladris. It's all I can do to bow and thank her. When I close the door behind me, I sink to the ground and rub my eyes.

"I hate it when Elves are right."

Sindo licks my hand. He has no opinion on the matter.

It takes a lot of willpower to kick off my boots and shed my clothes before collapsing on the bed instead of just falling asleep where I sit. Sindo - he's never been trained to keep off of furniture, and I hope Arwen doesn't mind dog hair on the bed - stretches out next to me; his breathing makes me feel like I'm at home.

Legolas is right - the sound of the waterfalls thundering to the river below does lull me to sleep, and I forget about everything else for a precious few hours.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter in the new format! Imladris is a new chance for Leo - the Greenwood arc is over. For now.**

 **As always,** **thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and favorited! I updated as quickly as I could with rewriting the previous chapters and all ( please comment if you notice any mistakes, like, seriously - my brain is fried ). Your reviews fuel me with the fire of a thousand Leomas. Thank you!**


	12. I Nearly Yeet Myself Off A Cliff

Being in the same room as Elrond Peredhel makes me uncomfortable. _There are far more terrifying things in this world_ , Legolas assured me before I entered the lord of Imladris's study. _He is nothing to be scared of_.

It's not that I'm _scared_ of Elrond, per se, but when he looks at me with his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes, I'm immediately set off. That expression is something nobody wants directed at them.

Also, his eyebrows are not flattering on his strongly boned face at _all_. He looks like the guy from the Matrix movie. Maybe that's the reason I'm gripping the arms of the chair I'm sitting in so hard my knuckles are turning white.

There's only so much I can tell him besides _I don't belong here_. I don't tell him much about my world, nothing about cars or pizza or Donald Trump, just that it's different; there are no elves, no dwarves, no orcs. . . it's a human world. Endearingly human. I miss that about it, but I don't tell him this.

He's rubbing his chin now. I'm glad he's not looking at me; it makes my skin crawl. Not really because it's creepy, but because there's so much swimming in his eyes. Thousands of years of knowledge that I can barely fathom, let alone decipher. I decide to, instead, stare past him towards the leather-bound books that line the walls. I get why Legolas wanted me to see him; the aura that he's someone who's powerful enough to help pours off of him in gallons. Also, he seems like a know-it-all.

Even after over a year in this place, I still haven't learned to keep from insulting my elders.

"Your world. It is called _Earth_?" Elrond asks. His voice is smooth, deep, and washes over me in a way unlike any other elf I've ever met. I shiver. It's not a voice that I necessarily like. But then I nod, and open my mouth to speak. "Yeah, it's - that's what we call it in English. I don't know the Sindarin equivalent."

I can't tell if Elrond is convinced or not. He has a great poker face, one that he pins me with and then turns to the bookshelves to pull down a thick leather tome. It looks heavy, but Elrond props it in his arms as if it's a feather, flipping through the pages. I catch a flash of one of the pages; there's a drawing of a man with a pipe. What is that - charcoal? Ink? Elrond turns the page and I lean back in the seat, waiting for him to say something. Literally anything.

"And your. . . arrival." Elrond isn't looking at me, but he's tasting the words as if he doesn't quite know what to say to me. I get it; it's a weird situation for _me_ , let alone a medieval elfy creature. "Describe it once more for me. With as much detail as you can remember."

I sigh and try to remember. It was a long time ago, and I've tried to block it so many times that I'm half convinced I've forgotten most of it. "Um. . . there was a storm. I'd been feeling sick for days, but I didn't think it was important." Yeah, I remembered that well - the sweat, the redness of my eyes, the way my lungs couldn't get enough air for weeks. "I looked in a mirror." Scratching my cheek, I tried to recall what I say there. I can't recall much beyond the yellow sweater that'd been ruined long ago in the dungeons.

"I was pale and sweating a lot. I think there was more, but - "

Elrond raises his hand. "This is fine. Continue, please." He sounds. . . well, not _urgent_ , but curious.

"I turned around, I think to call for my friends, and then the room just wasn't. . . _there_ any more." My skin crawls as if the forest is back, dark and cold and terrifying. I've gotten used to that forest now - I love that forest now - but I still get goosebumps when I think of that night. "Like everything melted away. In the blink of an eye."

He puts the book on the enormous wooden desk in front of us, but he doesn't close it. It's open to a page that I can't see, even though I try to subtly crane my neck and catch a glimpse.

"And. . . that's it. I tried looking for a way out, but after that night, I couldn't find anything." I don't say that I gave up rather quickly, probably because of the guard imprisoning me. I don't mention that either. This isn't a pity party, and I _definitely_ don't want to remember the dungeons.

Elrond nods. He's following his finger on the page of the book, eyes flicking back and forth. "Earth." He says again. "Yes, I see."

I wait for him to tell me that the book is actually a guide that's perfectly cut out to help me. He doesn't. Instead he beckons me to stand up, and when I oblige, he says, "I will continue reading on this matter. Thank you, Lady Leoma."

"Just Leoma." I shift my weight from one foot to the other none too awkwardly. Even _Leoma_ is pushing the limit - I prefer Leo, but elves aren't too big on nicknames, so I'm usually always referred to by my full name. Putting _lady_ in front of that? Yeah, no, it just sounds awkward - besides, I'm far too used to being a working class.

Elrond lifts a hand, but his eyes are still on the book. "As you wish, Leoma. I will send for you if I find anything that may help your. . ." He hesitates. "Situation."

Okay. Sweet. I'm not convinced.

Bowing, I leave as quickly as I can. I also can't help but feel that I could've done something better with my time, but I can't use that as an excuse because I immediately find Legolas and he convinces me to go on a hike. Instead of, you know, training or something helpful.

But when he asks three simple words - "Come with me?" - I realize that there's something in his eyes and it's _dear god, Leoma, help me get away from Elladan and Elrohir_.

"Can't you go on your own?" I turn away from him, since I don't really want to backpack across the valley and would much rather get a sandwich.

"Please." Legolas laughs at me, as if he can't believe he's saying the word. "It's a ridge above the valley. The view is beautiful there, Leoma." He's sweet, but I flap my fingers in his direction. "Please, you'd never take me out when we were back home."

 _Home_. I don't mean to say that word, and freeze immediately as soon as it leaves my mouth, but Legolas either doesn't notice or doesn't comment. Instead he shakes his head. "There goes our friendship, flying away as a sparrow in the breeze." He waves his hand at the sky, and, as I'm staring at him dubiously, his hand flashes out to grab mine and all of a sudden he's tugging me along the path.

"Wait - hold on - my legs are short!"

My complaints fall on deaf ears. Legolas only slows when we're out of the city and he has to let go of my hand to clamber over rocks slippery from freshwater spray. I'm not quite sure this is safe, but I know that if I comment on it, Legolas will call me a coward.

Still not entirely sure why he thinks we're friends, but. . .

 _Oh_.

I almost slip when the thought crosses my mind that he's attached to me because I'm a connection to his home and his friends. No, that can't be right. The guy probably just thinks I'm cool and funny and. . .

He thrusts his hand in my face. I blink at it, and then realize he's trying to help me onto the next ledge. When he wiggles his fingers, I reluctantly take his hand, and he hauls me further up the slippery rock face.

Then he loosens his grip before I'm stable, almost purposefully, and I scream in his face.

It isn't funny until I saw his expression. You know, the kind of face someone makes when you've blown an air horn in their ear.

"Calm down, Leoma." He puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me. "I won't let you fall."

"If you weren't prince, I would chuck you off this cliff," I mutter to myself, and he pretends not to hear me.

"Just a few more feet, Leoma. You can make it."

That's what he says to all the girls.

 _Ooh, bad mental image_.

When I clamber onto the almost slimy grass that lines the edge of the valley, Legolas gestures for me to turn. I give him a face, thinking the view can't be all that great, and -

Oh, wow.

The sky stretches over us and seemingly never ends. It's the brightest blue and the rivers around us reflects it, glass-smooth until it plummets into the valley with a noise not unlike. . . Rush week, actually.

I fall to my knees and peer over the edge of the cliff, my palms pressed into the ground. It's as if I'm scared the slightest breeze is going to punt me off the edge of the cliff if I don't steady myself, but. . . hey, that's what it's like when you're terrified of heights.

"How many words for _beautiful_ do you know?" Legolas all but demands from me. I can't look at him - my eyes are glued to the domes and arches of the city built into the valley; the white stone is glinting in the sun, but not blinding. It looks like it couldn't be anywhere else but this valley - this place has just enough magic for it. Like the city and the rivers support the beauty of the other.

"Can't tell." I sit back on my heels, lifting my face to the sun. It's a lot warmer than Eryn Lasgalen, maybe because we're not surrounded by trees and evil. I can faintly hear the grass crumpling as Legolas sits down beside me, but I don't really want to pay him much attention.

That is, until he asks, "How was it?"

"How was what?"

My voice is drowsy. This feels like a really good place to nap. Maybe if the falls weren't so loud, but. . . actually, would Legolas mind if I used his thighs as a pillow? But I don't have the chance to ask.

"The meeting with Elrond Peredhel. Can he help?"

I'm suddenly not very tired anymore and more swamped with the fact that Legolas is quiet and. . . sounds _concerned_. I rub my eyes, avoiding looking in his general direction. "Yeah, um. . . he says he might be able to find something. I don't know. I hope. . . "

Come on. I hope _what_ , exactly? Even I'm getting tired of my feelings constantly hopping from one side of the coin to the other. I'm torn beyond belief between two places and two families that both have become as important to me as Steen's cane syrup on pancakes.

When I don't finish my sentence, Legolas probes the air with a question that I don't want to hear. "And will you leave?"

"Do we have to have this conversation right now?" Suddenly the view doesn't seem as uplifting anymore.

"We don't, if that's your feelings on the matter." Legolas is irritable now too, and I don't understand why. "But you should know, Leoma, that we don't want you to leave."

The "we" he's talking about is probably everyone who's already asked me to stay, but I'm surprised he's included himself in that. "Please." I scoff and pluck some grass from the earth around my feet, like my hands can't stand to be idle right now. "You won't miss me. You have thousands of years left in your lifespan to meet other humans and forget me."

"Do you really believe that?"

The question catches me off guard and all I can say is, "Why shouldn't I?"

"A friend is a friend, Leoma. You doubt yourself too much."

Legolas pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin there. I'm struck with how young he looks. Then I'm struck with how different his eyes appear up close. Gray, but the kind of gray that reflects everything around him. The subtle blue of the sky, the brilliant green of the grass, the dusky darkness of the cliffs that rise up on the opposite end of the valley.

But no, I'm not staring.

"Don't ask me to be selfish." I blink rapidly, trying to banish the pricking tears at the corner of my vision. "I want to see my home again. I have family there - family and friends I've known for my entire life. You can't imagine how much I miss them, or how much it hurts to think I'm probably dead to them."

He's silent for so long that I think that the conversation is over, the moment passed.

Those elves sure are sticklers for proving me wrong, though.

"And if I do? Ask you to be selfish, I mean."

Here come the tears. I laugh, trying to disguise the tears in my voice. "You don't know how much you sound like a dashing hero trying to seduce his heroine right now."

When I look at him out of the corner of my eye, Legolas is staring at me, his face set so perfectly expressionless that I can't gauge his thoughts. He says blandly, "I'm sorry." And I get the feeling that he doesn't appreciate me trying to spin the serious situation into a joke.

Sucks to be him. I'm really not feeling in the mood to be all deep right now.

I'd say it was silent after that, but the thundering of the waterfalls swallows us until I can't bear it anymore. Standing, I brush off the seat of my pants and look down at Legolas. "You know I won't ever stop looking, even if Elrond can't help."

"I know." He accepts my hand and I pull him to his feet. It feels like a parallel. "I know," he says again, the sun behind his platinum hair forming a halo around his head. "And I'm so proud to call you a friend."

"That's good." I punch him in the arm. Weakly, since I don't want to offend his fragile princely emotions. Cough, or maybe I just don't have that much strength in my body right now, cough. "Because it's people like you that make it hard to do this."

He looks at me for a long time, long enough that I grow uncomfortable under his gaze and step towards the edge of the cliff. "This party blows. Help me down?"

* * *

As awful as I feel after the conversation with Legolas - the awkwardness lingers with the memory for literal _days_ \- my pain is multiplied tenfold when I discover that Arwen's brothers are Elladan and Elrohir.

It doesn't seem like much of a big deal, but Arwen is the type of ridiculously awesome and lovely lady that I want to be with when my emotions need a real pick-me-up. Having Elladan and Elrohir around poking fun at me doesn't really help the mood. But at least they don't bring up Ettrian or even Eryn Lasgalen - at all - and I can commend them for it.

Now chop, chop, boys, scram; I'm trying to spend time with my new favorite lead lady.

And Arwen _is_ so sweet - she calls me humorous and refreshing and brings me pretty clothes and fresh fruit and takes walks with me and talks about endearingly mundane things; Lariel and Daerdes. . . of course I love them, but one can only enjoy conversations about hunting and battle and blood and guts so much. Arwen's a little more my speed.

She's sitting on the edge of my bed one afternoon as she watches me try on a tunic she brought; I didn't ask for any, but my girl probably got tired of walking next to grubby, sweaty Leoma that just got out of training. Granted, my old tunics did have some questionable stains.

"So, are you trying to dress me up to impress somebody?" I chuckle to myself as I hop around in the tunic. It's a peacock blue and comes to my knees, something I'm not really used to after the short, grubby type of tops that are mandatory in the Guard so as to not restrict movement. The tunic doesn't restrict movement either, but that's because of the slit in the side, something I notice when I stop to look in the mirror and my leg peeks out at me.

 _Ooh, sexy._

 _I need some pants_.

Arwen laughs, waving her hand in the air. "Oh, no, no. But it must be tiring to be stuck in that uniform all day." She pauses. "Why? Is there somebody you wish to impress?"

That takes little thought at all and I guffaw. "Definitely not." There's only one person I could think of that I'd dress up for, and he's not here. ( It's actually the dad from _Train to Busan_. You know, before he turns into a zombie. ) "I mean, maybe myself? I could use some self esteem."

"Commendable." Arwen applauds me and tosses a pair of pants in my direction. I tug them on, trying not to flash her in the process. I doubt she cares, though; I feel like I've known her forever.

Which is a change from Legolas - who I've actually known for a long time - and his weirdness as of late. If anything, I can definitely use a break from him.

I defeat the pants and pose in front of Arwen. "Well, what do you think?"

"You rival the stars in the sky." A proud smile plays on her lips, like she's an older sister that's finally stuffed her sibling into something other than basketball shorts. Actually, that's pretty accurate. "What do you think, Sindo?"

Sindo - who loves Arwen, because she always brings treats - lifts his head from where he's basking in the sunlight. He's unimpressed, and quickly falls back asleep. I throw up my hands. "What will it take to get some appreciation around here? Let's go, Arwen. I'm famished."

We walk arm-in-arm towards the dining hall, which is my favorite place because there's no set meal time and I can always count on at least some kind of fruit pie to be piled on a platter in a forgotten corner.

But then a clear sound rings through the air, punctuating the falls in the background, and I realize after a few moments that it's a horn. And then I freeze.

Arwen pats my arm. "It's alright, Leoma. That is no battle horn."

She glances towards the open-air corridors that lead to the balcony. I leave her behind to hang over the edge and see who's here, but it's not like I even know them; some crusty old guy that looks like Ned Stark, from what I can see. He's on a horse and he's looking around half in fear, half in wonder. A weird expression to see on Ned Stark.

"He's human," I gasp, and Arwen refrains from remarking on my genius observation. But it's pretty obvious; he's too tall to be a dwarf and elves can't grow beards.

"He represents Gondor." I jump at Arwen's voice next to my ear and turn to look at her. She has an unreadable expression on her face, but I think that she's none too pleased to see this guy. I don't question it. I don't even have a clue as to what _Gondor_ is.

"That's nice." I dust my hands on my dress. "Well, it doesn't concern me, so I say let's get some food in our bellies."

( _Bellies_ , in this context, is a synonym for abyss. Arwen looks at me for a long few moments. Then she laughs and gestures for me to carry on. I can't tell if it's a polite laugh or if she genuinely finds me funny, but I'll take the latter. )

The man I call Ned Stark barely crosses my mind after that. In fact, he's so elusive around Imladris - meaning I never see hide nor hair of him - that I nearly forget about him. It doesn't help that a delegation of dwarves arrive a few days later, and I'm stuck listening to Legolas complain about them whenever I see him.

It takes all my willpower not to befriend each and every one of those dwarves as I'm forced to listen to Legolas prattle on. Then I remember that I can only speak Sindarin, and I'm content staying where I am.

Of course, only speaking Sindarin would soon be the least of my troubles.

But I don't have to know that just yet.

* * *

 **This is a short update, and it's mostly just filler, but I hope you guys enjoy it! The next chapter should be longer, and I'm hoping to get into a groove where I can update two or maybe even three ( gasp ) times a week. Don't quote me on this.**

 **As always, thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and favorited! Ettrian thanks you as well. You guys are the reason he's alive, after all. Or else he'd be kaput.**

 **Thank you!**


	13. Remember to Brush Your Teeth, Kids

Arwen is pale, and I haven't been briefed on the details yet. Not that I even had a clue as to why she would be pale in the first place, since I'd been spending the last few days holed up in my room after a sprained ankle when Legolas tripped me during practice. After a few tonics from Elrond - which is the _only_ help he's given me lately, cough, cough, raised eyebrows towards the audience - I'm good as new and rushing towards my friend, who looks quite as if someone's died.

"What's wrong?" I ask, and squeeze her hands because she's not answering and I'm not quite sure she knows I'm here. But Arwen blinks, focuses her eyes on me, and manages a smile. She tries to make it look as genuine as possible, but I'm not convinced, and she knows I'm not.

Thankfully, she doesn't even try to hide the truth.

Sighing, Arwen loosens my grip from her hands and pushes her dark hair away from her pale forehead. "Do not worry," she assures me, and takes me by the arm. I'm not very assured. " _I_ am fine, but. . . " She pauses. "Last night, a hobbit arrived in Rivendell plagued with the Black Breath."

"I don't know what any of those words are."

My friend tilts her head, as if trying to discern if it would be worth it to explain to me what a _hobbit_ is or why the Black Breath sounds like a gum disease. "It's. . . you can meet the patient later, and the Black Breath is something you should never face. That's all you should know."

I get the feeling that this isn't what she's upset about, and cross my arms. "Arwen, _please_. Tell me what's really up."

"Aragorn's out there," she blurts - for once not answering _the sky_ , which elves are prone to do - and I blank.

"Um, who?"

Aragorn? The name doesn't ring a bell, and it doesn't sound elvish, either. Maybe it's her dog. But from the way she's looking, I gather it's not. And I reach for her hand again, trying to calm her down. "Listen, that doesn't matter. He'll be back safe and sound, alright? You just have to trust him."

Which sounds weird coming from me, because for all I know, this guy could be a complete idiot lost in the woods being pursued by cavities and gingivitis. ( Well, with the lack of toothbrushes, you know. . . it's not too much of a long shot. )

Arwen stays silent for a long time, her eyes unfocused, and snaps back to life with a nod. "I know, I know. Thank you, my friend." She rubs my arm, and then almost pinches me, and I'm sure it's just because the poor girl's stressed. So I don't say anything despite staring at the reddening spot on my arm with consternation.

"So, um. . . who's Aragorn?"

My friend blinks at me; not unlike she doesn't understand why I don't know. Then she laughs, more at herself than me. "Ah. . . I've forgotten you never met him. He's my. . . " Here comes the silly smile and I know exactly what he is to her even before she says the words. "Betrothed. Four decades pass like days with him."

It takes me a moment to remember that she's an elf, and forty years _do_ pass like a breath of air for her. "That's so sweet," I say, knowing that on earth, forty years is really pushing the limit on how long you can tolerate your significant other. My parents couldn't even make it long enough for me to remember my dad.

But I'm definitely not salty about that.

I distract Arwen some more when I ask if the ring on her finger is from him - it is, and when she shows me closer I'm struck with how much the emerald eyes of the two entwined snakes look like they're alive - and slowly her worry melts into the background. I'm glad to help where I can. It's late that evening when I wander into the infirmary to see for myself what the Black Breath really looked like.

I'm not surprised to see that there's only one occupied bed - which gives me flashbacks to Eryn Lasgalen and almost sends me reeling - but I'm more surprised to see that the patient looks like a _child_. Then I move closer, and I realize that he's not a child, he's just. . . three feet tall. And very pale, down to grayish lips and wrists so white I could see his blue veins peeking through.

" _Oof_." That's the first thing I say, and it's more of a sound, an exhale of air forced out of my lungs, rather than a noise. I pull up a chair and sit down next to the bed. It feels natural for some reason, though he's completely passed out and I don't even know his name. "This your first time here too?" I ask, tilting my head as I look I him. Something about him tugs on my heartstrings. Maybe it's because he looks so small and helpless against the enormous pillows. "It's not so bad. You'll get used to it. I was hurt a lot when I first came, too."

He doesn't answer. I'm not surprised. I probably would've been more surprised if he had. I lean forward to touch the pale hand against the white sheets and then tuck it under the covers when I feel how cold it is.

"He is not a child, you know."

I freeze. That's Elrond's voice. Cringing, I look over my shoulder; he's standing - _majestically_ \- a few beds away, near the door, and watches me with his eyebrows drawn so low that I can barely see his eyes. ( It's a look that doesn't really suit him, but don't catch _me_ telling him that. )

"I, um. . . I guessed that. Sorry." I draw my hand back to my body, almost cradling it to my side as I stand and push the chair back. It makes a loud screech as it scrapes against the floor, but Elrond doesn't react. Instead he walks closer, the hint of a smile set deep in the lines along his face. "I was surprised to see you here, Leoma. Do you have interest in medicine?"

I step back, watching him slip his hand under the hobbit's neck and pour a few drops of tonic on the patient's tongue. "Not at all. Arwen told me, and I was just. . . curious." Which is true. Mostly. I was half curious and half uninterested in returning to the sparring grounds to practice. It's becoming a habit, but. . . practicing is ten times worse with the Demon Twins there to laugh at me.

"Curious?" Elrond steps backward; he's next to me, but he towers at least a foot taller. If the elves of Eryn Lasgalen seem otherworldly, then Elrond's at least galaxies apart. "I see. His name is Frodo Baggins. He encountered some bad luck on his journey. . . " Oh, yeah, because lying comatose is only _a little_. But I don't interrupt. "But he is recovering and should wake any day."

It reminds me of someone else I know lying in a hospital bed, and I wonder if he's woken up yet and if he even remembers. _Fuck_. I'm supposed to forget about that - I was supposed to have forgotten about that a long time ago. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway. I push my hair away from my suddenly-clammy forehead and glance at Elrond. "Is there anything I can do?"

He looks down at me, but his eyes soon return to the bed. "A kind offer, but no. The Black Breath is receding. And when he wakes. . . "

"I might be gone?" I ask hopefully, and try to gauge Elrond's reaction. I don't see anything - not even a hint of one. But my hopes spark when he says, "Ah, indeed. We should speak of this matter - " Pause. " - _Outside_ of the infirmary, I think." With a sweep of his arm, he gestures towards the door, and I force my legs forward. As we exit, someone sweeps by; I note only gray robes and a staff.

 _Now, that's a Dumbledore if I ever saw one_.

But I don't look back. My attention is completely on Elrond when he halts. I realize too late that my hands are clenched so hard that my nails are digging into the flesh of my palms. I try to relax, but this is the moment I've been waiting for for a year and a half. My stomach's suddenly in a turmoil.

And I still don't know what I want his answer to be.

But then he's hesitating, and a knot forms into the pit of my stomach. A knot that feels like it's sucking up all of my energy.

"It is a long answer - " He begins, and I hold up a hand to stop him. That hand then braces me against the wall, cool marble under my skin that doesn't do much to help. "Just say yes or no, please."

"No."

He doesn't look happy with how he's said it. Not guilty or sad, just. . . sympathetic for me. I stare in horror at the wall. Not because it's necessarily horrific, but just because it's the closest thing I can stare at.

 _No_.

It hits me so deeply. Like he whacked me in the stomach with a baseball bat. It leaves me gasping with tears in the corners of my eyes, leaves me grasping for something other than a cold stone wall. But I can't reach anything. Even with someone right in front of me, I suddenly feel very, very alone.

Jerking my head to meet Elrond's eyes, I try and calm my ragged breathing, but my voice is still mangled around the knot in my throat when I speak. "And. . . and the long answer? Is there any hope?"

He hesitates for too long. "What brought you here, Leoma. . . you are not the first, and you shall not be the last. But the powers that chose you are of the Valar, and are not so easily harnessed. When they decide you return, then you shall - we cannot know when."

 _What the fuck?_

I step forward. Elrond steps back. Not because he's intimidated, but rather because in my emotional haze, I'm not too sure of what _personal space_ means. "That's not an answer! What do you mean, _I'm not the first_? Who else is here? Who can I talk to? _I want to go home_."

Elrond looks around the hallway, which is very empty and very unlikely to be hiding spies or other small creatures listening in on our conversation. Still, he puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me down the hall. "Come with me, then. I shall see if I can explain in simpler words."

 _Simpler words_. I'm not stupid, but I don't argue - and I don't tell him he can go suck a dick. Instead, I drag my feet along the floor and say nothing as we walk. Which is probably just as good, since I don't want to offend the almighty lord and really ruin my chances.

Oh, well.

Here we are; he opens the door and immediately abandons me to pick up a book. I recognize it as the same book he'd flipped through when I was last in his study. When he beckons me forward, I get a glimpse of a page and realize there are things written in a language that I recognize.

It's been so long since I've read English that I've almost forgotten how, but it comes flooding back to me, and my eyes scan the words on the page. It's a diary, and there's nothing helpful there. Just some account of someone's day in Rivendell, how they can't understand anyone and why they think they're dead. This isn't the afterlife, though; it can't be. I'm not dead. This is all too real for me to be dead, right?

Elrond interrupts my existential crisis. "Then you can read the language here?" He asks, and after a moment, I nod. "Yeah. . . yeah, I can. Who. . . who wrote this?"

I flip through the next pages as I await his answer. The scrawled words transition from chicken scratch to elegant loops and then to Tengwar. It's like they're pasted on the pages, because next I see a different handwriting, different notes.

 _Who are these people_?

"A human was found on our borders nearly six decades ago. In the time that he dwelled here, we. . . could not discover much about him, but he gifted us his writings before he left. His world seems to be the same as yours."

"And how did he leave? Did he. . . die?"

Elrond doesn't say anything. When I look up, he's shaking his head.

"The Valar took him back, Leoma. This is your fate, and the Valar's will."

My hand clenches against the book. Then I relax, scared that I'll rip a page. "No, I can't accept that. I don't want to stay here until some god decides my time is up."

It's as if Elrond can't get through to me that this isn't my choice, but I don't want to believe it. I've never been religious, and I've always believed in fact; hard fact. I came here somehow, and there has to be a way to leave.

He puts a large hand on my head, and it's as if a sense of calm rushes over me. I don't want it to, and though my hands shake in anger, my mind becomes hazy. "I am sorry." How many times has he said that? It doesn't make me feel any better. "I cannot tell you when you may return to your homeland, but. . . I know someone who might."

"Who?" My voice is slow, drawling. It doesn't sound right to my ears. Curse elves and their non-consensual use of magic.

"Her name is Galadriel. Your elven friend, the Prince, may be able to take you. . . when his business here is finished."

 _Galadriel_. I recognize that name. The Elvenking isn't fond of her; I naturally feel a sense of apprehension. Maybe fear. I can't tell which. "And she can. . . can show me the way home?"

"Perhaps. In matters such as these, she is more powerful, and sees far more than I."

He isn't much of a comfort. I shake his hand off and duck under his arm, lurching towards the door. "Sorry, I think I'm going to be sick."

It's when I hang over the balcony and empty my guts that I wonder if there's an end to this, or if this is my punishment for cheating my way through high school geometry. It can't be, right?

 _Please, if there are any gods really out there. . ._

 _Help me_.

Nobody answers.

I lay my cheek against the marble rail and sigh. The movement makes me feel sick again, and I retch, and it's not long before Arwen finds me and sinks to the ground, her hand on my back. No questions asked - she's just there.

I still want to leave.

* * *

After spending several hours crying into my pillow with Sindo licking my hand and whining in my ear, I again venture out of the cave that happens to be my room and try to appear jovial. It's hard, when I'm as confused and tired and dead inside as I happen to be, but I make it work - especially since I don't want to activate Legolas's protective Mom Mode.

You know, the kind where he hovers over your shoulder and act like he wants to hug you but is too scared to and then feeds you too many sandwiches as if it's going to make you feel better but it only makes you more sick. Yeah, that one.

I don't run into Legolas at all, actually, which is probably for the best. Instead, as soon as I walk into the dining hall my eyes are drawn to Arwen. She's with someone else - some tall and bearded - and I don't want to approach her, since she'd already dealt with me too much in the past twenty-four hours. But she's also the only person I know, and finally I figure that the guy and the two kids eating beside them can wait; I'm too irritated to speak to anyone else _besides_ my homegirl.

Sliding into the seat across from her, I say, "Hey. Who's this?" With a none-too-rude thumb jerk towards the bearded man. A quick look tells me he's not Elvish, so I figure he can't understand Sindarin.

I'm very wrong.

He reaches across the table to shake my hand. "You must be Lady Leoma - Arwen was just telling me about you. I am Aragorn."

I stare at his hands. There's a lot to dissect. About what he said, not about his fingers. ( Whoa, bad mental image. ) "Um. . . that's nice."

I'm leaving him hanging, and finally shake the offered hand. "Please, don't call me lady. It sounds. . . not right. Just Leoma is fine." As I say this, I look at Arwen, trying to convey my thoughts through my eyeballs and also telekinesis: _this is Aragorn?_

I have to admit, I was expecting someone a little more. . . elegant, maybe. Aragorn is tall and muscled, and probably handsome under his beard, but from all I can see, he looks greasy and dirty and. . . not exactly the kind of person I'd expect to stand next to Arwen. They look like polar opposites - but underneath the dirt on Aragorn's face, I detect something proud, something majestic.

You know, the kind of majestic twelve-year-olds feel like when they get the high score on Dance Dance Revolution. It felt oddly like that.

"You journeyed from the Greenwood?" Aragorn asks me. His Sindarin is effortless, and I lean back, a little offended that he's better than me. Since we're both human, and all. But then I remember that he and Arwen have been together for, what, forty years?

 _Oh my god, Arwen, you're a cradle snatcher_.

I rub my cheek and nod. "Yeah, that's me. Legolas sucks as a traveling companion. He nitpicks about the sleeping bags."

It's true, but I don't expect Aragorn to laugh about it. He does - not a throw-your-head-back-and-bellow laugh, but a subtle chuckle. He has a cleft in his chin, and I squint. Maybe I'm too used to clean-shaven elves - who I'm ninety-nine percent sure can't even physically _grow_ beards - but he looks too. . . grubby and dangerous.

I mean, I do too, but it's different because it's on him.

"Yes," Aragorn agrees. "I remember that about him. He's very. . . specific about how certain things should be." Switching the subject, Aragorn inquires, "How long have you dwelled at the Greenwood? I cannot remember any trace of humankind when last I was there. . . are you from Dale?"

Arwen whacks him in the arm. They have a silent conversation with their eyes, and finally Aragorn leans back in his chair, dipping his head. "In any case, I hope you find Imladris to your liking."

". . . Yeah." I rub my arms. It's okay; well, it _had_ been okay, but I now have a distinct dislike of Elrond that seems to penetrate the very walls. "It's fine."

Arwen finally speaks up, reaching across the table for my hand. I give it to her, and she squeezes it comfortingly. "Leoma has had a rough day, Estel - perhaps you shouldn't bombard her with small talk right now." She looks at me, and I know that she knows I just want a little comfort and maybe a hug. Man, I love her so much. Aragorn looks between the both of us, and finally dips his head in a nod. "Ah, of course - I apologize if I've offended you, my lady."

 _Oh, my GOD. Stop with the my lady crap_.

I stand, pushing away the chair. "It's fine. I'll leave - you two can be alone." As alone as the two children stuffing their faces next to them - wait, maybe they were more Hobbits? They looked young, though - could leave them. Arwen looks like she wants to argue, but I'm already gone. I wind a curve back to my room, say a bumbling hello in Common - it's the only word I've learned - to Ned Stark, who I bump into outside the library, and finally collapse back on my bed.

Sleep seems like the only comfort for me now, and I try to enjoy it as much as I can, but Sindo keeps waking me to howl at the moon and the next day - around noon - I'm rudely awakened by Legolas nudging me in the shoulder.

As my vision clears and I realize it's him squinting down at me, I immediately scream and try to cover myself with my blanket, despite having never taken off my tunic or leggings. "What are you - how did you get _in_?"

"It wasn't locked." Legolas states matter-of-factly, straightening. "You have hidden yourself away for hours, Leoma, and have given me no reason. Come, let's go - I can introduce you to the newcomers of Imladris."

"I don't wanna." Sitting up, I run my fingers through my tangled auburn curls. Legolas - ever the drill sergeant - doesn't care. "Shall I carry you, then? I will not let you lock yourself within your room until you wither and die."

It makes me wonder if he knows what Elrond told me. At least he's not acting sympathetic - I can't stand that. I also can't stand the fact that he's in my room, but he is right. Holding up a hand, I nod. "Okay, okay - fine. I'll get up. Just. . . just get out of here, alright?"

He stares at me, as if he doesn't quite get what I'm saying, and then prances away when I toss a pillow in his direction. "I'll be waiting, Leoma! Do not think you can escape."

I don't think I can, and don't argue. Dragging a hairbrush through my hair, I try and make myself look at least a little presentable, but I'm not too sure it works. But I pinch color back into my cheeks and scrub the crust from my sleepy eyes and yank open the door. Legolas looks me up and down - like I need his validation - and says, "Leave Sindo for now. He stands taller than the hobbits."

"What, do you think he'll eat them?" I push Sindo back into the room and shut the door quickly before he can escape. The dog probably doesn't even care; he like staying in and sleeping more than roaming around. And he's discovered that the pillows taste extra delicious. Sorry, Arwen. And the housekeeping crew. Yikes.

"As I recall, he was rather fond of Galadhon's ankles back in Eryn Lasgalen." Legolas quirks his eyebrows at me. I hate him when he's snarky. There's a weak punch aimed in his direction, but he easily dodges, and starts off down the corridor. It's a few moments before I follow, and I have to jog to catch up. "So. . . you want to introduce me to. . . who now?"

Legolas shrugs; a simple lift and drop of his shoulders that indicates he doesn't even really know what we're doing. "I had to say something to get you out of your room." He turns his head to stare at me; I grow uncomfortable under his gaze. "It was not. . . difficult to guess that what Elrond had to say was not helpful."

I kick at the floor angrily, but it only scuffed the bottoms of my soft leather boots and left me feeling more unsatisfied than ever. Legolas folds his arms over his chest and lifts his chin. "I am right, then?"

"Aggravatingly." I sigh, scratching my upper arm. As utopic as Imladris seems, it's also plagued by the occasional mosquito. "He said he couldn't help me, and. . . "

And whatever the whole deal about there being _others_ was. It was like Elrond couldn't even speak in anything but vague tones. Who were they? _Where_ were they? How common were they? What the hell did the _Valar_ have to do with them? Or me?

. . . And Legolas was still waiting patiently for me to finish my sentence. I throw my hands up in the air, narrowly missing hitting him. "And now he wants me to go see _Galadriel_. I don't even know who that is!" Yeah, I sound like a child. Do I care? Give me my moment - I'm twenty-three, frustrated, far away from home, and very much in need of a glass of alcohol.

Yes, at one in the afternoon.

Sue me.

"Galadriel?" Legolas muses. "If Elrond cannot help you, I wonder at what the Lady of Light can do."

I flop my hand at him. "Yeah, well. From what he said, it's _out of my hands_ , or some bullshit - not that I believe that." Come on, all throughout middle school there were tons of motivational posters and, like, seven assemblies that told me I can do whatever I put my mind to. I'm holding on to that little string of hope as long as I can.

"I commend you. You shouldn't give up hope," Legolas says, and I wish I could say his tone was warm. To me, it sounds like anything but. I don't dare look at him, though. At least we've arrived at a hall full of milling elves, and I'm distracted for the time being.

"I don't think you thought your plan through," I murmur to Legolas as he approaches Aragorn and the hobbits I saw with him the other day. Legolas looks sidelong at me; I raise and lower my shoulders. "I don't speak Common."

Legolas purses his lips; I'm very sure, at this point, that he forgot this part when putting together his stellar plan to get me out of my cave. "I'll teach you, then."

"In the two minutes it takes to walk over there?"

"Do you doubt me?"

He sends me a teasing smile and instructs me to say a few basic words - an introduction. I can tell because my name is smack dab in the middle. ( Wow, I'm so smart. ) "Are you sure you're not making me say I eat puppies for breakfast?" I question, and since we've already reached Aragorn and the pair of hobbits, the former inquires, "What's this about puppies?"

I step back as Aragorn and Legolas enjoy a brief but very testosterone-filled handshake. The kind where they grasp forearms and then hit each other on the back and act like they don't want to hug each other but really they do. Yeah, that one.

When Legolas breaks the embrace - can we call it that? We're calling it that - he switches to Common Tongue and says something to the three in front of us, directed more towards the waist-high hobbits than to Aragorn. I barely catch my name, and I'm ninety percent sure he's saying something embarrassing about me, because one of the hobbits starts laughing. The other one kicks him ( with a very large and hairy foot, but I'm not judging; ya girl's strutting around wearing size elevens ).

I pinch Legolas's bicep. He doesn't flinch, but I wish he did. "What are you saying about me?"

"Nothing insulting, Lady Leoma." Aragorn lifts a pipe to his mouth to hide his dimpling smile. I clench my fists. _Hiril_ doesn't sound good next to my name. Legolas straightens, staring down at me. Okay, I'm really not liking it when he does that. "Only your shortcomings when it comes to linguistics, Leoma. Say hello."

Reluctantly, I say hello. It's met with a gentle return from Aragorn and a pair of very cheerful hello's from the hobbits. Their names are Meriadoc and Peregrin, I learn, but like me, they prefer nicknames - Merry and Pippin. Unlike me, Pippin _does_ prefer honorifics and suddenly I'm stuck calling him _h_ î _r Pippin_. Don't ask me how I get roped into that one; Legolas is the only translator and he's doing a really shitty job at it. Probably purposefully; I can see he thinks it's amusing watching me stumble over my Common vocabulary - which is, like, three words.

 _I'm seriously going to beat him up later_.

I never get the chance.

Afternoon turns into evening and as Pippin leads Merry off towards the dining hall as soon as a feast is announced, Legolas's hand clamps down on my wrist and he pulls me aside. I shake him off, but his hand doesn't move, and it leaves a silly grin on my face. "Hey, you know, you could just _use words_ instead of bodily harm."

Legolas shakes his head. "Anything to keep you from joining the little ones in devouring every morsel in Imladris. Actually, I had something to tell you."

I wait patiently. He seems to be hanging on to the pause for dramatics, which is wasting my time, because he's right; I _could_ be eating right now, and boy, do I very much want to be.

"Tonight I must attend a council held by Elrond. I cannot tell you much, for even I am unclear, and I fear you would not understand even if you were invited." He's no longer smiling. I wrench my hand from his. "You sound like it's the fate of the world you're talking about."

He looks at me for a long time. The hall is clearing out, and we're some of the only people left. It leaves the air still around us as if even the breeze is hanging on to our every word.

" _Oh_."

I've known for a long time that there are dark things in this world - but the look in Legolas's eyes tells me more than I need to know. Suddenly it makes my own problems seem trivial. I try and plaster the smile over my face again, but it feels false, like a mask. "It's no problem. I'll. . . you know. . . hang out, on my own. It's what I've been doing."

Legolas nods and doesn't say another word; he walks towards the lights in the distance that signify the dining hall. There's laughter and voices, faint but evident, spilling from the hall, but it's too quiet to fill in the void. I catch up to him and ask, quietly, "Why did you tell me?"

The moon makes his eyes appear especially pale as he looks down at me. "There will be many somber faces tonight. I wouldn't risk you saying something idiotic, Leoma."

Okay, now I'm offended. I raise my fists and try to rail on him, but he prances out of my reach. The laughter that fills my ears sounds like he's trying to make me feel better about the heaviness that he just dropped on my head.

It's not really working.

But food is. We enter the hall; it's milling with tons of elves that are quickly filling up tables. I spy Merry and Pippin at a table near Elrond, which was surprising to me, since those are saved for the higher-ups; Arwen is next to her father, and Aragorn on the other side of her. It takes me a moment to decide where to go, but Legolas steers me towards the table with the pair of hobbits.

"Not them again," I quip with a downturned mouth; they're funny, but one of them, the one called Pippin, is too high-strung and the other, Merry, is quite fond of kicking people. Legolas raises his eyebrows and gestures to a spare seat farther down the table. "If I can deal with you, then you can deal with two young hobbits, Leoma."

I snort and reach for a platter of crepes stuffed with apples and venison, true autumn fare. Galion is still my guy when it comes to cooking, but Imladris had this effortless way of combining food that seems fit for the gods with food that reminds you of home. In this case, the crepes are a real Martha Stewart dish, and I devour them with enthusiasm.

My illustrious companion and boss talks on and off with elves around him, but I don't contribute much to the conversation, especially since nobody really thinks to include me. I'm fine with that - there's a mug of honeymead calling my name and with each sip the room seems to get more boisterous. I barely remember Legolas's mention of somber faces, especially when the lutes are broken out and voices rise in a language I recognize, but don't understand.

It's Quenya, the elder language of the elves - what the old ones speak. I've heard it around the Greenwood, but now that I hear it in Imladris, I can't help but think that the rough accent of the Silvan elves butchers its tongue.

Nudging Legolas in front of me, I lean forward and whisper, "Why aren't you singing?"

His golden braids dance as he shakes his head. "Songs of reverence aren't for me."

I slump back, almost tossing the rest of my mead down my shirt. After careful consideration, I nudge the mug back onto the table. "You're killing me here. I bet you have a beautiful voice."

His eyes are amused as he glances at me, but he doesn't say anything - only lifting his fingers to his lips in a _shh_ gesture. I nod and duck my head, even though my earlier murmur was drowned out by the harmony of chanting elves.

I can see why he's so entranced with them. It's beautiful, not just because the elves are beautiful, but because it seems they weave their magic and immortality into the very words. It's - just like he said. Reverence.

 _Oh my god, I'm going to be sick_.

I slide out from the table and edge along the walls to the garden outside. The cool air brushes against my face and calms the rich mead and also alcohol fighting against my stomach - but at least it's not as bad as Dorwinion wine. I ease myself onto a bench and listen as the voices fall.

 _Is it over already_?

Then a single voice rises, somehow louder than the cacophony of elves before, and sings to Elbereth. A breeze rustles my hair, whispers through the trees and flowers in the garden, and then leaves with a sigh.

In that beautiful moment, I forget the reminder of the darkness of the world. Evil can't exist here, I tell myself. That can't be possible, can it?

* * *

 **I meant to finish this chapter and get it up earlier, but some things went a little awry. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter; I think I'm losing my touch, but you're free to flatter me in the reviews.**

 **On the council of Elrond: I have my collection of Tolkien stories beside me and was flipping through the chapters "Many Meetings" and "The Council of Elrond" and was so entirely confused and tired that I've decided to put the council smack dab after the banquet because a) I've read that the Council is held on the twenty-fourth of October, and b) Frodo wakes up on the twenty-fourth of October, and c) despite the very first words of "The Council of Elrond" being _Frodo wakes up feeling refreshed and well_ , I'd already written most of the chapter and am too frustrated to revise it. So this is what we end up with - not bookverse or movieverse, but, um, Leomaverse?**

 **As always, thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and favorited! Every new number that I see makes me smile and keeps me motivated to finish the story. Thank you!**


	14. Legolas Makes a Stupid Decision

Elves wake up looking like they're ready to walk a red carpet event. Unfairly beautiful, the lot of them - sometimes gets on my nerves, what with my drool and eyebags and bedhead, but what can you do? I've come to get used to it. So used to it, in fact, that I am quite surprised to see Legolas in the morning.

Four words.

He looks like shit.

I stuff a muffin in my mouth and pat his bicep. "You okay there, buddy?"

He shoots me a confused - and sleepy - look. Good lord, what happened? I swallow the muffin and rephrase the question politely, my voice no longer muffled. "You look crusty. Is everything alright?"

Legolas, picking over the breakfast choices, looks meaningfully around the room. "This is not the place, Leoma." He even _sounds_ tired and burdened and. . . everything in between. My lips crease into a frown as I slide into the seat next to me. "What did you do?" Like he's a small child and he's trying to hide the lamp he broke from me. Maybe that's a bad analogy. It's more like he looks like he's dreading an exam and knows he's going to fail. . . what a mood.

If there's one thing I don't miss about Earth, it's exams. Kiss my ass.

"What did you do?" I repeat in a gentler tone when Legolas still doesn't answer me. He stares at the fruit in his hand. I can tell he doesn't want to eat it, but he's considering giving it a try just so he doesn't have to answer me. I cover the pear in his palm with my own and force his attention to my face. " _Legolas_. You're worrying me." My own voice, less urgent than I expected, more patient and calm and assuring - it surprises me probably more than it surprises him.

"I said, _not here_." Legolas plucks my hand from his, and I let it drop to my side. Dumbfounded. It's not that he's being short or snappy - hell, I'm used to that - it's that he's. . . he sounds _scared_. I've been through a lot with Legolas in two years. _Two years_. Spiders, orcs, drunken stupors, the Elvenking, and Daelen hitting us with wooden swords. A lot that would make the average person cry, if not shit their pants. I've never once heard him scared.

"Then where?" I persist, stepping closer again. Legolas glances around the room again - for God's sake, you absolute heel, the walls aren't listening. He seems to think they are - it's a weird elf complex, being infinitely aware of your surroundings, totally not jealous, your stats suck - and I, being insufferable and stubborn, am through waiting.

"Let's go. And you'll tell me, okay? And if it's stupid, I'm going to kick you."

"Stupid _how_?" Legolas asks as I take him firmly by the wrist, dragging him towards the wide archway that leads into pale morning sunlight. He drops his pear somewhere along the way, maybe when we pass into the gardens and I start walking a bit faster. Even through the warm tunic I'm wearing, I can feel a chilly breeze - mid-autumn weather. At this rate, there'll be snow soon.

 _If only_.

There's no one in this part of the garden - unless someone happens to be hiding in the bushes, which I doubt, because they look awfully prickly - and I sit down on a marble bench. After a few moments of my Elvish companion not moving, I pat the spot beside me. Maybe a tad too forcefully. "Sit down. Spill."

Legolas sits down. He does not spill.

After a few moments of waiting, I notice that the silence is worming its way into my tender ears, and I can hardly stand it. "You know that whatever it is, I won't tell anyone else."

"It's not that I do not trust you, Leoma," Legolas answers for the first time in two minutes, so quickly that my eyes fly open in surprise. "But the words are. . . rather hard to find."

"Oh, so you're saying I won't understand it."

His gentle smile doesn't make me feel any better. "I never said anything of the sort." He pauses, pursing his lips in thought. I'm a little sad to see that smile go. "Actually. . . it _is_ difficult to explain."

"Just try," I urge, reaching to cover his hand with my own. This time, he doesn't flinch at my touch or push my hand away. And, after another pause that's too long for comfort, Legolas says, "It's a long. . . long story."

"I've got all the time in the world." It sounds cheesy, but Arwen can wait. Training can wait. Sindo can wait. I'm supposed to be Legolas's friend, right? I'm not letting him just wallow in his own sadness and confusion. Neither of which I thought elves were capable of until I saw the look in his eyes.

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth in thought. It's not the time to tell him that biting his lip is a bad habit, so I wisely keep my mouth shut and give him time to find the right words.

"Last night. . . " In two words, I'm struck with how much Legolas's voice trembles. "Elrond spoke of things that had been. . . hidden from me, from many of us, for too long. And how it concerns the peril of the world. This is why I am hesitant to tell you, for. . . " He slides his gaze to me; it suddenly seems distant, not distant in the way that he doesn't know me, but distant in the way that he's lost in his thoughts. It still catches me off guard, and my hand, absently, squeezes his, waiting for him to finish. "For trust is a luxury these days. But I told you this already." He laughs wryly, and pushes a few strands of golden hair out his face.

"Yeah, you did." I try for a smile - it's gentle and reassuring, which is a rarity on my face, but I don't know if it does anything to ease Legolas's anxiety. Maybe I shouldn't have pushed him too far, maybe I'm really not supposed to be listening to this, but. . . it really pains me to see that nervous look lurking deep in his eyes where he tries so hard to hide it.

"Then I must tell you something else." His chest rises as he takes a deep inhale of fresh Rivendell air. Face tilted up towards the sky, maybe where he can't meet my eyes. "There was a being once - a lieutenant of the first Dark Lord, Morgoth. Name of Sauron."

He paused, waiting for me to recognize the name. It took me a few seconds, and then my stomach lurched.

" _Oh_. That one," I say faintly, trying to dispel the dry feeling from my mouth.

I've heard his name tossed around in the halls of Eryn Lasgalen. Even before I knew who he was, some dark feeling followed whenever he was mentioned, hung in solemn air around his name. Then once we'd ridden too close to Dol Guldur, and an unexplainable chill had entered my bones then, one that I can still feel if I concentrate too long on the memory. Even _seeing_ the place through the trees brings a foreboding aura to the sentinels on guard. I'd learned during this time that it was once the stronghold of Sauron, the Necromancer; his name and job description was all I needed to know about him, to know that he was a bad guy. I'd never asked about him - whenever mentioning his name or Dol Guldur was avoidable, then it was best to just forget about it.

Even now, I don't know much about him. Just that if he's linked to the world in peril - it can't be good. "I thought he died years ago," I finally say. "Dol Guldur has been empty for. . . decades."

"Not dead," Legolas cautions. "He fled far east, to the realms of Mordor. And there he gathered the secrets of dwarven-smiths and elven-smiths, by befriending them and offering aid; none yet knew he was evil, but this was how he stole their knowledge. He used this knowledge for. . . " His eyes become focused on my face again. "If you laugh at this, Leoma, I'm afraid I might have to end our friendship here."

"I won't," I promise. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"He used his knowledge to forge rings," Legolas deadpans. Contrary to his belief, my lips don't twitch at all, but I do give him a confused look. Jewelry - not really the kind of thing I'd expect a dark lord to dabble in. It's sort of a hobby for old women where I'm from, making and selling jewelry at booths in hospitals or at art fairs.

"Rings. Okay. I'm here for it." I'm quiet for a moment, and then I feel the need to clarify something. "Rings as in the jewelry, or some obscure torture device that I don't know about yet?"

"No, you're right - the jewelry." Legolas tilts his head back, sighing. "But these rings. . . they held - _hold_ \- power in them. It is no simple piece of jewelry, Leoma. They're like. . . weapons. Twenty of them were crafted in total, bearings of evil, to seduce the rulers of Middle Earth into turning to Sauron's dark side. _Three_ _for the elven kings under the sky_ ," Legolas recites. Underneath my palm, his hand curls into a fist, digging into the folds of his tunic. " _Seven_ _for the dwarf lords in their halls of stone. Nine for mortal men doomed to die_."

Well, that certainly sounds cheery.

"That's just nineteen." If I'd been back on Earth, Wyatt would have lovingly called me Captain Obvious. Legolas doesn't know the term, but he pins me with a look that deeply reminds of my oldest friend.

"The last was forged secretly in the fires of Mount Doom," Legolas answers, looking away from me again. "Separately from the nineteen, crafted by Elven-smiths in Eregion. It was made to be linked to the other rings, a ruling piece among them, all-powerful. Sauron intended to use it to corrupt the minds of those that wore the nineteen rings, but - " He pauses, biting his lip again. " - this ring's power could not succeed that of the elves or dwarves that also obtained rings of their own. Even when his plan failed, he obtained a military like that which Middle Earth had never seen."

"Past tense," I assure him. "You're speaking in past tense, it has to be all over now, right?" There's no chance of that happening. With the likes of orcs, giant spiders, and Daelen, an evil overlord lurking in the corners of the world isn't too much of a stretch.

It's still terrifying, though. Dig-a-hole-and-hide-for-three-hundred-years terrifying.

Legolas, proving my point, shakes his head. "I wish that were the case. It is true that the Ring was cut from Sauron's hand, nearly three thousand years ago, and Sauron's power was diminished then. But this One Ring corrupts the mind of any who holds it. It betrayed the man who had the chance to destroy it, it betrayed Smeagol, and - "

"Don't say that name."

Legolas yanks his hand from mine. I realize that I'd dug my nails, suddenly, into his flesh, and his eyes glint with a different light for two seconds before he realizes. "Leoma, I - "

I bring my hand up to my forehead, wiping away the few dots of sweat that have gathered there. I can sit through a history lesson - that's manageable. I can deal with evil jewelry made to seduce people ( ? why even ), and I can bear with evil overlords.

Whatever name you choose to call Gollum by. . .

I never want to hear it again.

"Leoma," Legolas repeats, more firm this time. He places one hand on my shoulder, then another on the other shoulder, but I still can't look at him. It's not that I'm crying - I'm not - but I feel like I will, if I meet his eyes. Ettrian was Legolas's friend too.

"I'm sorry," he says, and that's about all I can take. His right arm is an excellent brace for my head, and I lean my cheek against it, trying to force a smile to let him know I'm okay. "We've apologized too many times for this. Come on, I'm fine - tell me what happens next."

The piercing look he gives me tells me that he knows I'm lying, but he obliges. Even if he seems reluctant to let his hands drop from my shoulders. Aw, sweet boy. "The One Ring fell into the hands of a hobbit, and it has found its way into Imladris. Last night, the council held was to. . . determine what to do with it."

Oh, here's where it gets interesting. My back straightens as I try to put more effort into looking interesting. "Obviously, you're going to destroy it, right?"

"Yes." If he had stubble, it seems like he would be rubbing it in thought now, but he looks rather clueless as to what to do with his hands. "But it's not that simple. The Ring can only be destroyed where it was forged - in Mordor, in the fires of Mount Doom."

I can almost hear the dramatic music in the background.

"You're kidding me. That _can't_ be its name."

"I'm not kidding you." Legolas stands, offering his arm to me. I take it, and he hauls me to my feet. "You see my worries now. I. . . I agreed to be part of the company to escort the Ring to Mordor."

I stumble and almost fall. Legolas hasn't let go of my hand yet, and that's probably what saves me. I spin on my heel to jab my finger into his chest. "Excuse me, _what_?"

"I agreed to be part of the company to escort the Ring to Morder." Same words, same tone. But now he's saying it as if to defy me. I know I can't do anything to stop him - he's a Prince, after all. But he's also my friend.

And this sounds like a _dumb_ ass idea.

"You. . . you're telling me you want to journey across the continent on a dangerous mission to escort a dangerous weapon to be destroyed. . . in possibly the most dangerous place in Middle Earth." That's three times I've said the word _dangerous_ , and it doesn't feel like enough.

Legolas nods seriously, his braids bouncing as he does so. Oh, he's so dead.

Figuratively - as I mentally throttle him and his meaty neck - and literally, because if the small band of orcs roaming the Greenwood almost killed me, then what could an entire continent of them do to him?

"What about me?" My voice comes out small.

"You will return to Eryn Lasgalen, tell my father of my choice, and then be escorted to Lothlorien where Lady Galadriel will help you." Oh, he's thought of this. He sounds so _confident_. Like he's had a plan this entire time.

My god, what an ass.

I rub my forehead, trying to consume all of this information. There's a dangerous weapon right here in the city, my friend wants to lead it straight to the enemy and possibly die in the process, and he expects me to go back home like he's just going on a vacation to Hawaii.

Okay. Okay, I can deal.

Feebly, I turn around and start walking down the path. "Leoma," Legolas calls, audibly frustrated. I stop in my tracks, but I don't answer for a few moments. Trying to gather something to say, literally anything. But my mind is blank.

And then I look over my shoulder and say, "You know, part of my job description is keeping you from doing stupid things."

He's standing there, arms hanging at his side like they're a couple of limp noodles attached at the shoulders. And he's looking at me with a weird expression slapped over his features. "I know that." How can he sound so old and young at the same time? Doesn't he know he's giving me trust issues? Fucking elves, man. Fucking elves. I shake my head. "But you insist on giving me gray hairs anyway."

"Now, that's in _my_ job description."

How dare he smile at me?

He can't drop a bomb like that and then _smile_. That's not how things work.

I don't return the expression. "I have to go walk Sindo, Legolas. You, uh, you have fun saving the world or whatever."

Then I'm gone, leaving the garden with my tongue clenched tight between my teeth. If I turn back, I might actually kidnap him and keep him from going - but I don't, because that would be horrible. It's his choice. A dumb one, and with it, things just got a lot more complicated for me.

* * *

Sindo doesn't need walking - I'd already gone out with him that morning - and he barely looks up as I unlock the door to my room. "Hey, buddy," I say as I sit on the edge of my bed, my elbows resting on my knees. He doesn't even walk over to give me a kiss, the asswipe. I huff in his direction.

"Feels real good to be ignored by everyone that matters right now."

Sindo heaves a sigh. I know he's just reacting to my presence, but I can't help but take offense to the noise. "Hey, listen, buddy - I've just been told that there's someone with enough power to _put the world in peril_ , and my friend personally wants to stop him. And leave me here all alone. What would you do if that happened to you?"

Sindo doesn't answer - because, you know, he's a dog. I let my head fall into my hands, peeling curly hair away from my clammy face. "I've already lost one friend. How does Legolas think it's okay to do this? I can't go back to the Greenwood knowing that I've left him."

My dog looks up at that word - _Greenwood_ , home. He doesn't recognize much - attack, food, fetch, roll over. But he does know home. I meet his little doggy gaze, half-hidden behind whiskers that flop into his eyes, and then I whistle for him softly. He picks himself up off the ground with a sigh and pads over.

 _Click-click, click-click_. His claws on the floor. Then he licks my hand and settles his head on my knee. I rub my hands through his tawny, rough fur. "That's a good boy. I bet you do want to go home, don't you? You like the woods more than this city?"

Granted, Imladris is beautiful, but it's not home, not the kind that Sindo and I know, and it has wonderful people, but not the ones that Sindo and I love. "But that still doesn't make it okay."

I guess Sindo agrees. He's looking at me like he does.

I could go back to the Greenwood - see my friends one last time, leave Sindo with Daerdes and Curunir, and then go to Lothlorien to go home, truly home. But I would leave Middle Earth without knowing what happened to Legolas, if Galadriel could help me. And I don't want that to happen.

"Or you could stay here a while and wait for me," I tack on, pressing a kiss to Sindo's head, right above his scruffy doggy eyebrows. "It's my job, right? Keeping him safe and out of trouble. It's what a guard does."

Sindo's ears prick up, and he settles on his haunches, turning his head towards the open balcony door. Guard - he's taking it as a command. A dry chuckle leaves my mouth. "Yeah, just that."

As my dog becomes distracted from my attention, I fall backward onto my bed, scratching my stomach with a weary sigh. Decisions are hard. Three years ago, it was on whether to have Burger King or Wendy's for dinner, and four years ago, it was on which college I wanted to attend, which now both seem equally easy compared to what I'm facing now.

Safety, friends, and a chance at seeing my family again versus Legolas and death.

Here's the thing, kids.

Never, _ever_ risk your life for an elf.

I've said it before.

They don't deserve it.

But I haven't quite learned that lesson yet.

* * *

 **Happy 2019, my dudes. Yes, I spent the remaining two months of 2018 trying to map out how I wanted this chapter to go. Actually, no, I spent the last two days flash-writing it because I'd spent so long procrastinating and ignoring it.**

 **Also, I've seen the comments about my typos, and guilty as charged. I've corrected the ones I've found both in this chapter and past ones but y'all. . . I need a beta reader so bad. One that's not the free version of Grammarly.**

 **Thank you very, very deeply for all of the reads, reviews, follows, and favorites! It means the world to me to end 2018 and start 2019 with this story.**


	15. The Thing Ft Aragorn and Mithrandir

Aragorn is hard to find - but that's probably because he's a Ranger, and from what I know about the class in DnD, they're good at. . . blending in.

They're also good at having whack ass animals as pets, and I sincerely hope Aragorn doesn't have a dire wolf stashed somewhere, but, you know, whatever. Despite what Middle Earth may seem like, life here isn't just a bunch of dice rolls and a Dungeon Master's Guide. Though maybe I would be a _little_ more Medieval Land Fun Time World if I'd actually _read_ the guide.

Now's not a time for exposition, though - now's a time for hunting Aragorn's furry little greasy ass.

Figuratively.

Because he's greasy and has a beard, not because his ass is. . . nevermind.

For once, though, he's not with Arwen, and I hang back a few minutes to double check what I remember of this guy. He's tall - check. He's got a beard - lumbersexual king. Classy leather armor - sure. Talking to eye candy - I'll get back to you on that.

The guy he's talking to is old and equally tall, if not taller, but maybe his incorrigibly tall and pointy hat adds unnecessary inches to his height. He has a beard even more impressive than Aragorn's or any dwarf's I've seen so far - it's dirty gray, stained with tobacco ( okay. . . that's kind of grody ), and reaches to his knees. Or where I assume his knees would be, since a long robe - equally as dirty as his beard - covers it.

Alright, Leo, it's just two guys, and you know one of them.

You can do this.

Even if you're asking where the sign-up sheet for the suicidal mission is.

 _Let's go, twinkle toes_.

I march up towards the pair. Aragorn stops mid-sentence - he's speaking in Common Tongue, that's Westron for you nerds out there, and I haven't the faintest idea what he might be saying - and peers down at me. He's several inches taller than me, even taller than the weed we call Legolas.

The very, very annoying weed we call Legolas.

"Good afternoon," Aragorn greets, switching to Sindarin, perhaps startled that I appear so eager to speak with him. I plaster a grin across my face. The real toothy kind that tells you I'm either desperate or uncharacteristically happy.

"Hello." I wiggle my fingers in a wave, a gesture that looks like it confuses not only Aragorn - the kind of guy that probably gets human contact, or any kind of social contact, once every three months - but the older guy as well. "Here's a weird question. Were you at the council last night? The one held by Elrond?" The one I wasn't invited to - but, well, I'm not mad about _that_ part. I'm just mad that Legolas made such a horrible decision without me.

Aragorn looks at me, then at the old man next to him, and then at me again. "Yes." Kind of like he's almost afraid where this conversation is going to go. I don't blame him - Legolas made it clear that this was a dangerous subject, top-secret matters.

Well, apparently not top-secret enough for me to know about it.

Still, I don't like the way the old man is looking at me. His fist is subtly curled around the staff he carries, as if he's ready to beat me over the head with it if I say anything stupid. A gentle and friendly smile on his face, but a sharp look in his eyes. Ew, eighty year olds are scary.

Dragging my attention back to Aragorn, I say, "Then you know about the. . . thing. The thing-thing with Legolas, and the, uh. . . road trip." _What am I doing_ , I ask myself wryly. _Trying to skirt around the fact that I'm talking to someone I barely know about something I shouldn't have even been told_. _Really makes my job easier_. But I wring my hands and hope that Aragorn guesses what I'm trying to say. He looks like a smart guy - actually, no, right now he looks like a very bemused guy, and that doesn't leave me with much hope.

But then he utters slowly, "Oh, yes, that. May I ask why we're speaking in tongues, Leoma?"

I gesture vaguely towards the man next to him. Aragorn looks at the guy for all of a fraction of a second and then nods. "Have you not been introduced yet? Leoma, this is Mithrandir. Mithrandir, this is Legolas's. . . guard."

 _Mithrandir_.

That name seems familiar. I squint, trying to remember where I've heard it before. I know for a fact I've never met this man before; I definitely would have remembered such an impressive beard and the far more impressive hat. But then. . . where?

Oh.

I remember the first time I traveled through the impressive halls of Eryn Lasgalen, my hands bound behind me, escorted by Daelen and a pair of guards. That was back when they were letting me out of the dungeons for the first time, and I was ninety percent sure they were going to kill me. Instead, they put me on trial before the Elvenking. I can barely recall those questions now - so much has happened in the two years since then, it seems almost trivial compared to spiders and training and orcs and death - but one of them. . . one of them definitely was _do you know Mithrandir_?

Huh. I was kind of expecting a god, or maybe a spirit. Not necessarily someone the Elves worshiped, but definitely someone they respected - it was obvious from the tone they referred to him in. Not. . . not a wrinkly guy with a stained beard.

But I'll take what I can get.

Hurriedly, I force myself into a bow. That's something you do with anyone the Elves respect, because you _know_ they've got to be powerful. And suddenly I'm worried that I've made a bad impression. "Sorry, I - I didn't mean to speak informally. I'm Leoma Firenfeld."

"Guard of the Greenwood?" Mithrandir relaxes into his staff, apparently having forgotten why I came to the pair in the first place, or the look in his eyes when I mentioned the "road trip". "I do not recall seeing a human the last time I ventured into Thranduil's realm."

"I'm new," I all but squeak. "I've barely been a guard for three months. But, speaking of my job - I'm worried for Legolas and the. . . _thing_."

Right, back to that. Aragorn and Mithrandir share a look. Then Mithrandir leans down and asks me, his eyes kind on the surface but glinting dangerously underneath that, "And how do you know of these matters, child?"

"Legolas told me." That's easy to blurt out. Granted, I _did_ push him into telling me, but it's not that I _really_ regret it. If I hadn't made him spill the beans, would he have left without me? And then that would be shitty for everyone - him, me, and everyone that would be affected by my enormous temper tantrum. ( We've established that I haven't quite grasped the concept of _emotional maturity_ , haven't we? )

"Ah. . . " Mithrandir straightens, albeit with difficulty. Probably because he has a bad back. Being old, and all. "Yes, he would, wouldn't he? How much did he tell you?"

First of all, _what's that supposed to mean_? I blink at the question, and then decide to bypass the hint that they have dirt on Legolas. ". . . Everything. Nearly everything. The. . . jewelry guy, and the, uh, the world domination?"

Oh, I'm bad at code.

I add, "And that Legolas is going - you know, _going_ going. The thing is, I can't stop him, so I. . . I wanted to ask if I can go, too."

Aragorn shakes his head. His greasy hair swings as he does so. I'm maybe more fascinated than I should be by it. "The _thing_ you speak of is dangerous, Leoma. Even if Mithrandir allows you, I will not."

Mithrandir prods Aragorn's foot with the staff. Aragorn looks affronted. They appear to be having a telepathic argument. I wait anxiously for the stare-off to end, knowing that it could go two ways, and neither will likely end well for me.

But I've made my choice, and I know which way I want it to go.

Finally Aragorn sighs and looks down at me. "Leoma, do you understand the gravity of _the thing_?"

"Yes," I say carefully. I'm dumb and immature, but I know how dangerous this is, and I know that it's a life or death matter. Not just for the _thing_ itself, but. . . from what Legolas said, the entirety of Middle Earth.

Am I ready to take on a burden like that? Physically, probably not.

Mentally?

Well. . . I'm not going to let my friend go alone, I can tell you that.

"This is not a matter to be taken lightly," Aragorn warns me. "You can tell no one of this - " As Legolas should have done, but apprently he didn't get the memo. " - And you must be prepared to lay down your life for the safety of Middle Earth."

I give him a tired smile. "My oath already binds me to the Elven prince, Aragorn. Where Legolas goes, I go. If I die. . . then that's how it's going to be." Besides. . . real talk, what millennial _wouldn't_ welcome death with open arms, in this economy? Wait, maybe that's Gen Z. Oh my god, I can't even remember the right memes anymore.

Mithrandir puts a withered hand on my shoulder. "Then, Leoma Firenfeld, welcome to the Fellowship of the Ring."

* * *

"You've lost your touch."

Well, yeah, thanks, Legolas, but nobody was asking you.

We're in the training fields - which are much nicer than the ones in Eryn Lasgalen, in case you're wondering, and with a lot more sunshine - practicing archery, mainly because I haven't touched a bow since we came to Rivendell. That was three weeks ago, and honestly, I could have gone longer.

But Legolas dragged me out of my room and wouldn't take no for an answer. I think because he thinks I'm mad at him - still - and I partially am. Because after everything, he still thought he could get away with signing up for a suicide mission and _sending me home without him_. What friend thinks that's okay?

But I'm not any better. Maybe my aim is off because I don't know how to tell him I'm going with him. Hiding things? Who's she?

"Leoma," Legolas calls my name, a touch of urgency in his voice, as my arrow lands in the grass beyond the target. I blink - once, twice. Yeah, it's a stupid idea to shoot without paying attention. Legolas slips his bow over his shoulder and walks over to me. "Your hands are in the wrong position - have you forgotten everything already?"

"I know how to do it," I return, and lift the bow again - notching the arrow, pulling it back to my cheek. Breathe in, release the arrow, breathe out.

 _THUD_.

Legolas stares in mild pride where the arrow's landed - the circle just outside the center of the target. "I suppose you do. But, Leoma - " His voice draws my attention away from the field and back to him. " - Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." I manage a smile. _Tell him, get it over with, tell him_. Just do it, Leo.

He's already turned back to his target with a self-satisfied look on his face, and suddenly I don't want to break that expression. So I keep my mouth shut and notch another arrow. Breathe in, shoot, breathe out. Again and again. Until the target looks not unlike a porcupine. . . and my quiver is empty.

"What was that about losing my touch?" I toss over towards Legolas, waiting for him to finish shooting before retrieving my arrows. In the meantime, I plop on the ground to take off my arm guard and tie back my thick hair away from my sweaty head. Either it's unusually hot for late Narbeleth, or my sweat glands are giving a clear indication of my current anxiety.

"Tired?" Legolas asks as he walks towards his target to tug the arrows free. Little stinker has them clustered neatly around the center, whereas mine decorate every ring of the canvas of my own target, as well as litter the ground in front of it.

But at least he picks up my arrows as well and returns with his arms laden with the stuff.

"Yeah," I reply, finally squinting up at him through the harsh sunlight. He's carefully stowing away arrows in his quiver, and when he's finished, he does the same to mine. Oh, he's definitely trying to make up for something.

"Legolas."

"Yes?" He doesn't look at me save for a quick glance in my general direction, and then he focuses on the arrows again. Maybe too focused, in fact.

"I'm going with you."

That immediately breaks his concentration. For a fraction of a second, he freezes, and the remaining projectiles almost tumble from his hands. Then Legolas cranes his neck at me. "No, you are not."

According to Aragorn and Mithrandir, though. . .

I stand, leaving my bow and arm guard on the sandy ground. "What are you going to do, stop me?"

"If I have to." He drops my now full quiver to the ground, maybe regretting putting my arrows away for me now that I'm being an asshole, and takes a step in my direction, then another. "I told you that I'm sending you back to Eryn Lasgalen - that's on the orders of your Prince."

Does he think that a harsh tone and a serious glint in his eyes will make me believe him? That a couple of orders will scare me into following his directions?

Actually, maybe.

I clench my fists, but stand my ground. "My oath swore to protect you. Even if your choices risk your life. _Especially_ when your choices risk your life."

He should know that line of the oath. That the Guards of the Greenwood protect their King and Prince under any circumstances, and if they're given orders not to, those guards make a decision - disobey their monarch and fulfill their duty, or. . . follow orders and risk losing a member of the royal family under their watch. Which will most certainly involve banishment and/or a lot of bodily harm, if not death.

So what if Legolas is a warrior two thousand years old? Accidents happen. Arrows go rogue.

I'm supposed to be his shield.

And I'm ready to be.

Legolas opens his mouth, obviously ready to argue, but I've hit him with the King's Laws and he can't really discredit that. I watch the gears turn in his head, waiting for him to say something, literally anything. I'd take a _you're fired_ over pure silence right now. But all I'm getting is, well, nothing, until Legolas grumbles, "Do you know how dangerous it will be?"

Oh, thank god.

A nervous laugh bubbles up within me, and I all but stuff my fist in my mouth to stop it. But Legolas is already giving me the _be serious_ side-glare. "Yes, I'm well aware," I murmur, speech slightly muffled by my hand. "Aragorn and Mithrandir informed me. But it won't stop me, Legolas. It's either the both of us or neither of us."

"And I know you well enough that I can't convince you not to go." His lips twitch, but his eyes are still a stormy combination of anger and defeat.

I shrug, stepping forward to pick up my bow and quiver. "Yeah, you do, don't you?"

As I turn to leave, Legolas's hand wraps around my bicep, and forces me to look at him again. "Leoma, you know I want to protect you, don't you?"

"God, why would you?" The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. I try for a toothy grin to cover up the quick blurt that may or may not have been uttered at a very inopportune time.

"Because you are my friend, as much as you try to convince yourself you have no place here." His grip loosens. I cast my gaze at the ground, suddenly feeling very put in my place. Legolas continues, in a very unfair and earnest tone, "I have watched you grow and blossom as a friend, as a Guard, and I do not want that so easily destroyed in a war that you could have avoided."

Now we're going too far. I try to cut him off, but Legolas holds up his hand. "I will not stop you. No, I cannot stop you - I just hope you will understand that when worst comes to worst, I will not let you lay down your life for me."

 _Oh. . . I'm feeling things_.

Gratitude, maybe. An overwhelming sense of respect and admiration.

But that doesn't stop my ears from going completely red.

And my freckled face bursts in to a grin. I throw my arms around Legolas's shoulders, maybe poking his eye out with the tip of the bow that's slung over my torso in the process. "You're insane, Legolas. Sweet, but insane." Pulling back, I try to keep my smile under wraps, and end up patting his shoulder awkwardly and walking backwards until I trip over my arm guard, which I'd stupidly left on the ground.

"I'll see you tomorrow!"

My hand lifts in a wave, and he repeats the gesture, though he remains in a stunned silence. ( When was the last time the poor guy got a hug? Geez. )

"For training?" He calls as I walk towards the distant spirals of the dining hall.

"Yeah," I say over my shoulder. "Or anything you can teach me about not dying, huh?"

"Well, when you put it that way. . . "

And maybe I have a ridiculous smile on my face as I leave.

Maybe.

* * *

 **Wow. . . I heard there was a desperate need of fluff out there. Just me? Really? Watch me** **stab an arrow tagged " _Leoma and Legolas's bromance_ " through my shriveled heart. **

**As always, thank you for the reads, reviews, follows, and favorites! You guys fuel me. I'm still on the search for a beta reader ( gestures vaguely to pm box if you're interested ), but if you see any mistakes, let me know in the reviews and I'll fix them as quickly as I can!**


	16. The Thing Goes South

In the world of Middle-Earth, there's a great deal of waiting.

Listen, if they had phones we wouldn't have to wait for sentinels to get back with news or whatever. Because when _I_ wait, my anxiety tends to grow and grow until I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, usually dreaming about the looming jaws of death.

The only good news?

Elladan and Elrohir were part of the scouts that left with Aragorn - shortly after I spoke to the ranger about joining the Fellowship - and can I get a _thank god_ out there?

It's calmer without the twin sons of Elrond hanging around, but it's not like they bothered me much since I'd been in Imladris, or Rivendell, or whatever you want to call it - not since they'd heard about Ettrian.

There's also a lot less calm, on the other hand, mainly due to the fact that waiting brings endless training and, when my muscles are too sore to hold a sword or bow any longer, studying Westron. Both talents I know I'll be glad for later down the line, but spending my evenings with a vocabulary book is something I thought I left back in Eryn Lasgalen.

In two months, I'm proud to say that both my skills in combat and in communication have improved mildly, as I'm now able to talk to Merry and Pippin - the most sociable of the four Hobbits that joined the Fellowship - in jagged, stitched-together words. They're enthusiastic and they don't mind my grammar, which is nice, sure, but the most important part is that I can fucking _smoke_ them in dueling.

Then again. . . they're three feet tall. Maybe I should ask myself if that's something to be proud of.

The scouts finally start to trickle back into the city long after Hithui turned into Girithron, or November into December, or whatever month it matches up to in the Gregorian calendar. Nobody tells me outright, but I hear snippets of quiet conversations: wolves gathering and hunting upriver, drowned horses in the Ford, and no trace of the Black Riders or Gollum anywhere in the North.

I don't know who the Black Riders are, or why drowned horses would be a good thing, but as long as Gollum remains several miles away from me, we're good.

After Aragorn returns from the wilds, Legolas spends more time walking with him, or with Mithrandir, or sometimes both; I don't know what they talk about, but I can only assume it's about the journey, and I settle myself comfortably with the idea that it's better not to know what icky dangers we could face. Instead of joining them in looking at maps and books of lore, I spend most of my time going over dictionaries with Frodo, who, to my delight, also speaks Sindarin. Merry and Pippin sometimes help, though their hints and conversations mostly lie around food.

Which is good and all, but what I'm trying to learn is a nice, simple way to yell " _help me_ " when I'm in trouble and nobody around me speaks Sindarin.

And when everyone around Imladris starts buzzing with preparation to send the Fellowship off - _finally_ , I tell myself, ignoring the growing pit in my stomach - Elrond calls me back to his study.

That's where I am now, steeling my nerves by pacing in front of his door. Before I even gather the courage to knock, Elrond opens it, looming over me with a serious look set in his deep, dark eyes, somewhere below the expanse of his eyebrows. "Lady Leoma," he intones. "I was waiting for you."

I cringe at the hint that I'm late. "I'm sorry, my lord."

He waves his hand, gesturing for me to come inside, and I oblige, sliding into the seat I've taken the last couple of times I'm here. "Do not apologize," Elrond assures, or maybe tries to, but it doesn't really work. "I wished to speak with you about your. . . role. . . in the path you have chosen."

It's not that I outright _told_ Elrond that I joined the Fellowship, but I guess it's something you can't really hide. I swallow and nod once. "What about it? . . . My lord?"

His fingers form a temple as he laces them together, not outright staring at me but rather at his hands. "You have lived long in a place where there is no Sauron or Ring, or any danger of that kind. I worry that you do not know what you are stepping into."

Oh, this tirade again.

I straighten my back - as stiff as a pole - and my expression settles into one of irritation. Which maybe I shouldn't be wearing around Elrond - I'd hate to seem _impertinent_ , you know. But while I am from Earth, it's not like I don't know what's going on. It's terrifying, and I don't particularly want to know _more_ about it, but how many times have I said that I'm not backing out? How many more times do I have to say it?

"I'll tell you what I told Mithrandir and Aragorn: I'll do what I have to do. If that means following the Legolas and the Ring into dangerous waters. . . " I shrug, probably more nonchalant than I need to be, and Elrond doesn't look very appreciative. "Then I will."

"Not just Legolas," Elrond cautions. "You will be expected to lay down your life for any member of the Fellowship, but the Ringbearer first and foremost."

"Of course." I dip my head in respect. "I understand that much - it's a long and dangerous road, and I have to account for the lives of everyone, right?" Here Elrond nods in response to my question, but it doesn't make me feel any more at ease.

"Then tell me this - should I worry for your fate?" Elrond seems half serious, but I also sense something else in his tone, like he's trying to make me feel at ease in the most morbid way possible.

And in reply, I flash him the finger guns. Elrond doesn't know what it means, but maybe I've become too used to the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen just putting up with my slangs and gestures. Ignoring the quick flash of surprise across Elrond's face, I say, "There's no need to worry about me. What happens, happens - I can take it."

He doesn't look reassured, maybe because of my flamboyant movement, but quickly changes the subject. "Then, when you pass through Lorien - "

"I'll talk to Galadriel," I reaffirm, forgetting all too quickly that interrupting an Elven Lord is probably on the impolite spectrum. "But even if she can get me home - I won't go until after the Ring is destroyed." _And Legolas is safe and sound_. I just couldn't live with that guilt on my soul - not just for Legolas. Had it been any of my other friends - Daerdes, Curunir, Lariel - I would do the same thing.

And let's not even _talk_ about Ettrian.

I would rip the world limb from limb for him.

And with the way my path seems to be going. . . hell, maybe I will.

My talk with Elrond ends in him giving me some warriorly advice and a small book on Westron, travel-sized for my adventuring convenience. He wishes me good luck and, should he never see me again - _let's not think about that_ \- he hopes that I find home again.

And you know what?

Maybe I should start thinking that I already have.

* * *

In the end, my supplies consist of those of the edible and medical variety, an extra warm cloak - Legolas cautions that we'll be traveling through all manner of weather - a bedroll, my bow, the sword that Curunir gave me, and the small Westron book. The last thing I pack is a carefully wrapped hunting knife, slipped into the sheath in my boot - the gift from Ettrian on my first hunt ages ago. Light to carry, for easy travel. We'll be walking, Legolas says, which means I can't bring Daelorgaer. I'm not sad about that - that's pretty logical, not something I can argue with.

What I am sad about?

Sindo is staying in Rivendell. He doesn't really know that he may never see me again yet, but I know that Imladris is a far better place for him than the wilds of Middle-Earth, no matter what kind of battles he's trained for.

Arwen agreed to care for him, but she's not really the _dog_ type, so I suspect Sindo will find himself more often in the company of Elladan and Elrohir. They might not have much going for them, but they _are_ dog people. And they usually bring him treats, so maybe the next time I see Sindo, the poor guy'll be as big as a house. I hope not, since I've given clear directions to keep him exercised and trained. . . even if he can't come with me, he's still an attack dog, and having him watch your back is just as good as any human(oid) warrior.

But I'm not given much time to dwell on what I'll be missing. We leave on the twenty-fifth of Girithron - a date that's painfully close to when I'd normally celebrate Christmas - and in the very early gray morning of that date I make my way down to a misty courtyard, one I can barely recognize due to the heavy fog of early winter, but I know its location due to the proximity to the great hall. Immediately I recognize Legolas, Aragorn, and Elrond - the tallest of the bunch - and then the scruffy Boromir, who I haven't spoken much to, and Gimli, who was chosen to represent the race of dwarves. The other four small figures are the Hobbits, clustered around the pack horse.

Pfft. A pony.

Daelorgaer could do better.

I settle for carrying my pack on my own rather than strapping it to the pony and cross over to Legolas and Aragorn. The former gives me a small smile. "I can't deny I was hoping you would sleep in, and we could steal away without you knowing."

"What, you wouldn't even give me the luxury of goodbye?" I aim a weak punch somewhere near the vicinity of his shoulder. But I'm tired and Legolas is agile enough to dodge it, so all he does is laugh at me. Aggravated, I scrub a hand through my messy curls.

Man, I forgot a hairbrush. . .

Nah, I'm too lazy to go back and get one. Besides, then the Fellowship might _really_ leave without me.

Boromir joins us then - the Tall Folk - and in poorly pronounced Westron, I point crudely to his belt and say, "Nice horn."

He looks down. Legolas nudges me. I realize too late that it might be a bit too crude, but I don't mean the fact that Boromir's pants are a bit too tight. He actually has a war-horn hanging from his belt. Like a medieval band geek.

Well, at least we have that in common.

He really ends up saving the situation as well, and scrounges up a smile from somewhere underneath his patchy beard. "Loud and clear it sounds in the valley of the hills, and then let all the enemies of Gondor flee." I understand all of those words individually ( Westron is really starting to give me a headache ) and then blows a long blast from the horn, one that echoes over the arches and rocks and against the thundering of the waterfalls.

Almost like an omen, I think to myself, Westron long forgotten. It's not a bad way to start a road trip.

Legolas puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me away as Elrond forewarns Boromir of the war-horn - something about hoping he should never reach for it again unless for dire need. I'm not too big on eavesdropping, and Legolas is kind of dragging my attention away.

"I thought we spoke of refraining from saying crude things until you've known someone for at least a month," he says, the smile evident in his voice. There's something else on his mind, but he's trying to find a good way to segway it into the conversation.

"What? Come on, that was kind of funny. And you know I didn't mean it like that." I squint in his direction. "Are you okay?"

"As _okay_ as I'll ever be." English sounds weird on his lips, but I look past it. Then, when I'm about to go make sure Merry and Pippin are doing okay - no doubt they're as anxious as I am - Legolas pats my shoulder. "If something should happen, Leoma - "

"Then I get your bow, right?"

He shakes his head, lips twitching again. "No, Leoma, try and be serious for once. Should anything happen to me, I do not want you to feel any guilt, do you understand? It was I who made this choice first."

I take a step towards the fire, a distant glow in the mist. "Yeah, but _if_ something happens, I totally get your bow."

"Shut up."

He stands beside me, warming his hands. All we're waiting for now is Mithrandir - the only one who hasn't come down from the Last Homely House yet. I said my goodbyes to everyone I wanted to yesterday, because I knew I would leave late in the night or early in the morning. Casting a glance around at the Fellowship, I note that Aragorn has taken to a bench, leaving Boromir and Elrond to converse quietly alone. I _would_ go give him a pep talk - Aragorn's looking awfully morose - but I'm cold and stiff, and the fire is bringing warmth back into my bones.

And he really looks like he doesn't want to be bothered.

Then Mithrandir comes out, and all attention turns to him, as Elrond joins him at his side. This is it. I may or may not be clutching Legolas's forearm, because truly all feeling has left my body.

It's Elrond who speaks next. "This is," he announces, "My last word. The Ringbearer is now setting out on the quest to Mount Doom, and on him alone is any charge laid - to cast away the ring or to lay it on any servant of the enemy or to let any handle it, save the members of the company or the council, and only then in the gravest need."

"He sounds serious," I whisper to Legolas, my voice harsh. I don't know what kind of glare he gives me, but the small sigh tells me that it's probably not the time to be making snide comments.

"The others go as free companions," Elrond continues. "You may tarry or come back, or turn to any other path. The further you go, the less easy it will become to withdraw, yet no oath is placed on you to go further than you wish. For you do not yet know the strength in your hearts, and you cannot foresee what lies ahead on the road."

There's a voice. I pinpoint it coming from Gimli. "Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens."

Oh, man, this is too much for me.

"Can I say _or she_?" I ask Legolas, and there's a slight shake of his head in reply.

"Maybe," comes Elrond's voice. "But do not let him vow to walk int the dark, when he has never seen the night."

Gimli seems ready to argue, and he says something else - " _Sworn word might strengthen quaking heart_ ," which is something that sounds like it's pulled straight out of the DnD manuals at Wyatt's house.

Cheesy as it may be, this quote sticks with me.

Sworn word. . . okay. Let's see if this works.

 _I promise that I will not abandon my duty_.

Weird - I'm still scared.

* * *

Mithrandir walks in front with Aragorn. Then Gimli, followed by Frodo and Sam, with Merry and Pippin not far behind; Boromir behind them, walking alone. Legolas is voted to take rearguard, and I, getting the feeling that the party's in the back, walk half in front and half in step with Legolas.

We splash through an icy ford and turn in what I hope is south, since I've seen all of two maps and know that Mordor lies in a rough southeasterly direction - across miles and miles of mountains and forests and plains. If we had a Subaru, the journey would probably take two days of straight driving - but we don't have a Subaru, and I'm freezing my ass off.

No, we signed up for this, Leo. We don't get to complain.

I rub my upper arms and ask, "So, do we know what the plan is?"

Legolas doesn't make a sound. Boromir turns to me - I can tell because by now, there's just the slightest hint of a sunrise. "We will cross the mountains and hold our course west for many days, perhaps weeks."

I try and conjure up a mental image of the last map I'd studied, but considering I have the memory of a goldfish and most of my neurons are holding important Westron information, I get nothing. "And then - what?"

"We shall not reach Lorien for a long time yet," Legolas says, catching up to Boromir and I with his nimble step. "And that is the first sign of civilization we will see on our path. After that, I cannot know what course Mithrandir or Aragorn would wish to take."

"Mithrandir?" Boromir asks, slightly interest at the name.

"Gandalf is his name in the Common Speech." Legolas explains. "I use his Sindarin translation to save Leoma's confusion - she doesn't speak much Westron."

"I'm getting better!" I proclaim, and somewhere ahead, Aragorn turns around to tell us to be quiet.

But how can I call him an ass when he's just trying to keep us from getting jumped?

Still, a forty-year-old, an Elf and one obnoxious child should know better.

In this manner, several horrible days pass. If my aching calves aren't enough, walking days on end in weary and cold weather puts a damper on my mood. There's a distinct absence of sun and far too much drizzle of rain for my comfort, and even sleeping doesn't bring much respite. I've gotten so used to Sindo that I'm starting to consider finding a honey badger to cuddle. It's even worse than the little travel I'm already used to ( on horseback, in the daytime ) - we find ourselves travelling at night to avoid suspicion, and sleeping during the day in bushes or under thickets. Yay, bugs.

With a change of wind it seems the weather switches just as easily; as a warmer breeze starts to blow, the skies open up, letting in chilly sunlight, effectively drying out my soggy bones and my soggy mood.

It's my turn to sit on watch now. My chin tucked against my knee and one hand clutching a stick as I idly scratch in the dirt, eyes glued to the distance. There's a shadow of mountains there.

I wonder how much longer?

Man, Spotify Premium would be a _blessing_.

Luxuries are too much to ask, but that doesn't stop me from reaching into my bag and breaking off a piece of stale bread. Yeehaw, folks. This is where the road begins.

* * *

 **Me, desperately trying to get on a more active writing schedule and reach the decent limit of at least 3,000 words :**

 **Yeah, writing is _tough_. **

**As always, thank you for all of the reads, reviews, follows, and favorites! The Fellowship has officialy begun. I hope you stick around with Alcartur. And please let me know what you think in reviews!**


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